


Leithian Script: Act IV

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2002-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 72
Words: 285,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.<br/>06/30/03 Scene V.iiv - x up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enteract

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  


**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**ENTERACT**

* * *

****

  


  
  

Gower:  
    
Now let your searching fancy far  
across wooded hill and vale  
follow upon the track left after  
like to the storm wind's ragged trail   
of shattered trunk and fallen rafter  
where roil and ruin stir and swirl  
in the wake of three -- but three, alone  
whose deeds, like gods', should hurl  
down lord and land, Power from throne,  
setting at naught all long-made schemes  
of foe and friend alike, all dreams  
of conquest, of defense, all surety--  
Deeds of renown, fearful purity  
of intent beyond any sound constraint,  
whether of reason or of reasoned dread,  
requiring no conjecture to make faint  
the heart where memory in's stead  
sufficient proves; recalling these,  
the darting course across Beleriand  
that ever northward runs, let please  
thyself to turn imagining to stand  
witness to havoc wrought like rising gale--  
increas'd consternation in the minds  
that none might formerly assail,  
and hear the echoes of those winds  
that shake the solid roots of rule,  
the hallways mighty of the courts   
most high--  
  
[Nargothrond: one of the hallways along the throne room leading to the side  
entrances -- Orodreth is striding along at high speed, Gwindor trailing along  
in his wake. He flings open the doors and storms through, his expression one  
of absolute intensity, talking as he goes:]  
  

Orodreth:  
    
I want you to summon everyone in the City, not stopping to discuss why, and at once. Assemble them here within the quarter-hour. Set the perimeter here first of all. Make sure my daughter's guards are on full alert. And don't talk to your father, either. No discussions until I make my statement. Is that understood?  
  

Gwindor: [wide-eyed]  
    
\-- Ah, Sir, when you say "everyone," you don't mean--  
  

Orodreth:  
    
\--Everyone. Awake, asleep, working, playing, loving -- get them up, get them out and get them in here if you have to drag them by the hair, my lord. Every last person in Nargothrond.  
  

Gwindor: [breathlessly]  
    
Y--yes, Si--  
  
[he breaks off, it's settling in]  
  
\--Sire.  
  
[They share a long, bleak look. Gwindor swallows.]  
  
Yes, your Majesty.  
  
[He hurries off. Orodreth lets out a long sigh and walks more slowly up to the dais, still more slowly up it and to the throne. On the topmost step he goes down on one knee and bows his head.]  
  

Orodreth: [softly]  
    
I will do my best. --And it will never be enough.  
  
[cut to the now wide-open main doors of the Throne Room from without, tracking the Sons of Feanor and their entourage as they enter the now-filled and utterly silent audience hall, with an armed escort, not of their own providing. They halt in front of the throne, before which Orodreth stands, holding the crown in his hands. Celegorm gives Orodreth a vicious Look; Curufin looks around and smiles nonchalantly. You can't tell if they know or not, from the way they're acting -- but Curufin does have his hand on the hilt of Angcrist.]  
  

Curufin:  
    
Oh, come on now, was all this fuss necessary?  
  
[he gestures around at the grim-faced guards]  
  
You know we don't just come when you whistle, my lord Regent!  
  
[Orodreth does not speak; Curufin shrugs]  
  
Well, now you've got us here, why don't you say something, Sir Steward? What do you want, eh?  
  

Orodreth: [deliberately]  
    
Not Steward.  
  
[silence -- he raises the crown and places it on his head]  
  
\--King.  
  
[The Sons of Feanor exchange glances, and then lock stares with Orodreth -- who stares them down.]  
  
And I want nothing from you. Your tally is up again, -- Kinslayers.  
  
[The Feanorian supporters exchange looks of dismay and subtly, but distinctly, start drawing away from their lords. Now Orodreth seats himself on the throne. When the brothers start to try to interrupt him he just keeps talking over them.]  
  
You will not, however, make me into one. My people want you butchered. If it is not unanimous, there are at least no audible dissenting voices. But I am not you. Be grateful for that, if you have it in you to be grateful for anything. And I rule here. --Be grateful for that as well. Luthien, called Tinuviel, has won -- there is no Tol Sirion any more. And my brother has triumphed as well, for Beren Barahirion still lives. Witnesses here have attested both. And Huan has returned. Your bags are being packed -- and checked for valuables -- as we speak.  
  
[he gestures round at the silent, shocked crowd of Nargothronders]  
  
Whoever wishes to go with you may do so. I don't care where you go, so long as you're out of the realm by sunset. --Don't ever cross the border again, or you will be treated as enemies and shot on sight. At which point it will be on your own heads, being forewarned and far from helpless. There is neither shelter nor friendship for you or your brothers, anywhere in Narog, henceforth. Please try to remember that.  
  
[pause -- the Sons of Feanor look around and see that their retainers are relegating them to the "unlucky and cursed" category too.]  
  

Curufin: [smiling through his teeth]  
    
Oh, we will. We most definitely will.  
  
[spots Celebrimbor in the crowd]  
  
You going to remember your family duty at last, boy?  
  

Celebrimbor:  
    
I don't have any immediate family in Middle-earth. So I'm doing the best I can with the nearest I have left. --Does that answer your question, milord?  
  
[Curufin shakes his head in an expression of contempt. Celegorm, face flushed with growing rage, goes as if to step up on the dais and accost Orodreth, and is met with the barred spears of the Guard. Speechless, he too turns away after his brother. Out of the shadows Huan rises and goes after Celegorm, head and tail low.]  
  

Celegorm:  
    
Ha, so now you come skulking back to me, you traitor! A little late to be remembering your duty\--  
  
[Huan follows them sadly, the escort respectfully parting for him, not jostling   
him like the Sons of Feanor.]  
  

Orodreth: [raising his voice to the guards]  
    
Enough! Remember my commands: do not shame my brother with discourteous action!  
  
[chastened, the escort snaps to professional dispassion and escorts the Sons of Feanor out the doors without further rough handling. The King reaches up with a bitter smile to adjust the unfamiliar weight of the crown, and his daughter puts her hand on his shoulder, moving closer to the throne]  
  

Finduilas: [softly - she has clearly been crying recently]  
    
\--What will become of her now? Of -- them?  
  

Orodreth:  
    
Only they can choose that, child. --It isn't Luthien Tinuviel I worry for, but The Beoring.  
  
[she looks at him uncertainly; he stares off at the vaulting.]  
  
For now he, too, has left the Island behind him. --May the Powers send him better rest than mine has been these years.  
  
[she takes his hand rather desperately in her own, as he whispers:]  
  
The question is -- what will become of us now . . . ?  
  

Gower:  
    
\--most ancient--  
  
[Southwestern Doriath: an armed camp, in the greenwood, Thingol in full armor coming from his command tent with Captain Mablung as Beleg enters the clearing, accompanied by a small crowd of warriors, in camo and looking absolutely grim.]  
  

Beleg:  
    
\--You want the report in public, or privately first, Sir?  
  

Thingol: [sardonic]  
    
Might as well give it right here and now -- we've done everything else as a public show, why stop now?  
  
[Beleg gives a short nod, goes on]  
  

Beleg:  
    
The good news is, you don't have to worry about the Sons of Feanor showing up to dinner and drinks. Luthien suborned one of their agents and broke out on her own.  
  

Mablung: [not-quite aside, innocent look]  
    
Again . . .  
  
[Beleg catches his eye, shakes his head]  
  

Beleg:  
    
There's more. And worse.  
  

Thingol:  
    
Say on.  
  

Beleg:  
    
She will not come home again. She's thrown her lot in with him for good, and no one knows where they've gone. No sign or word of Master Daeron. And--  
  
[he starts to speak and stops abruptly]  
  

Thingol:  
    
Don't try to spare me, Strongbow. --Or soften the blow.  
  

Beleg:  
    
\--Orodreth is King in Nargothrond.  
  
[Thingol closes his eyes, turning his face away.]  
  
I'm so very sorry--  
  

Thingol: [holding up his hand to stop him]  
    
\--I guessed that was the burden of your message. It does not make it any easier. --Are there details?  
  

Beleg:  
    
There are.  
  

Thingol: [not asking]  
    
They're bad.  
  

Beleg:  
    
They're very bad.  
  
[pause]  
  

Thingol:  
    
Captain Strongbow, could I ask you to keep them until we get home again? I'm not ready to deal with so much news right now, for such a long ride back. And that way you will only have to tell it once.  
  

Beleg:  
    
No trouble, Sir.  
  

Mablung: [quietly]  
    
Sire, what do we do now?  
  

Thingol: [eerie calm]  
    
\--We go home. We go back to work. --What else can we do? She clearly does not need our help any more, nor, apparently, ever did. --And if she does, we have no hope of finding her, to be of any use. No: we will return, and see if our Lady will consent to advise me again, now that I am willing to listen, or if that is lost to us too.  
  

Mablung: [diffidently]  
    
At least he's not a Kinslayer, Sir. You said so yourself, remember . . .  
  

Thingol: [ice]  
    
He might as well be. Don't speak of him again in my hearing. We will never see her again. --Or at least, not as long as he lives. Perhaps she'll come back to us after. Until then -- my daughter might as well be dead, thanks to him.  
  

Mablung:  
    
You don't think -- he seemed a decent sort -- that he'll bring her back home, after she's calmed down and gotten over her temper?  
  

Thingol:  
    
If he does, I'll kill him, and I'm sure he knows that perfectly well.  
  
[grimaces]  
  
\--Unless you think he's actually going to hold up his end of the bargain and come back with a Silmaril in hand--?  
  
[he slams his fist against the trunk of the nearest tree and sighs bitterly. After a moment -- to Beleg:]  
  
Thank you for undertaking this mission, Strongbow; I'm glad you're back safely. Mablung, can you make sure that everything is struck properly and that we're ready to start back as soon as possible?  
  
[Mablung nods]  
  
Thank you.  
  
[Thingol ducks back into his tent and closes the flap behind him. Mablung exchanges looks and brief hand-signals with several of the troops standing round and they go off to get things underway. Beleg sinks down to sit against another tree, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Mablung kneels down beside him, looking concerned]  
  

Mablung:  
    
You all right, old chap? You look pretty beat -- nobody winged you, did they? --Not to be insulting or anything.  
  

Beleg: [shaking his head]  
    
I am beat -- not physically, though.  
  
[pause. looking up at Mablung, bleakly:]  
  
\--Place is a ruddy mess.  
  

Mablung:  
    
Us? Or them?  
  
[Beleg nods]  
  
I know. --I know.  
  
[pats the other officer sympathetically on the shoulder]  
  
Well--  
  
[sighs deeply]  
  
\--"back to work--"  
  
[he rises and goes off to assist in the packing, while Beleg folds his arms and leans his head against the tree, closing his eyes.]  
  
    
Gower:  
    
\--and the lowest low--  
  
[Angband - the great hall. Behind a column of appalling design and construction,two Orcs are carrying on a muttered conversation]  
  

Commander:  
    
\--All right, give! Is it true the Eagles took Fangs away to eat him?  
  

Tracker:  
    
Nobody knows! He's just gone, like the spies. The downdraft blew away any tracks that might have been left around the entrance, and then farther out the stinking wolfpacks went charging all the way out over the Plain, so even casting around's been a waste of our time.  
  

Commander:  
    
Hah! So much for "superior wolf senses"! Pack of slobbering idiots. They should never have taken my crew off the Gate.  
  

Tracker:  
    
So what exactly happened? Anyone figure it out?  
  

Commander:  
    
As far as we can tell, old Sauron wasn't telling the truth -- not the whole of it, anyway -- in his reports to HQ. Big surprise there, of course. Yes, there was a batch of spies disguised as us that he caught sneaking through his territory. Yes, that Dog was involved. But the kicker is -- get this -- his whole cursed defense system was blown through, apart, and away, not by the stinking Hound, not by the warriors, but by that Elf-chick he's been trying to snag for the past eight-nine years, you know, the one whose supposed to be some kind of demi-demi-goddess or something. She was the one who did it all, and our prize Sorcerer, I'm-so-scary, everyone-trembles-at-my-name -- he somehow forgets to put this little fact in his little reports.  
  

Tracker: [growls]  
    
You mean all those spot-checks of IDs that we've been having, and the random interrogations, the flay-one-in-every-hundred and all, that's all been wasted?  
  

Commander:  
    
You surprised?  
  
[snorts]  
  
Come on, were you spawned yesterday? If you don't think there's just as much screw-up-and-cover-up at the top as down the lines, you need to start thinking. --And she was the one who just traipsed in here, la la la, "Oh my, is this Angband? I had a fight with my parents and ran away from home and I'm looking for a job," playing all stupid and naive, and -- The Boss buys it. Hook, chain, and thumbscrew. Never occurs to him to ask why this Princess just walks in -- how she got through the desert, where she got the wings, and why in the name of the Void she would come here of all Middle-earth. Or -- who else might be with her. Huh. And they call us stupid!  
  

Tracker:  
    
So then what happened? And weren't they in disguise too? I heard it was two of them, or maybe three. Wasn't the Hound disguised as a warg or something?  
  

Commander:  
    
Nobody's sure. But yeah, she came in pretending to be one of Sauron's little delivery-girls from the old fort, and a bunch of people say there was a wolf with her, which is interesting, 'cause usually those freaks can't stand each other, and a few of the lads say it was even Old Long-Tail. Which would be really interesting, 'cause that was in the reports that he was dead, and if it was the Hound disguised as Fangs' sire, and Ugly didn't even know the difference, well, all I'm saying is it's a shame Fangs disappeared, so we can't interrogate him.  
  

Tracker: [regretfully]  
    
Aw, yeah\--  
  

Commander:  
    
All we know is, somebody got hurt at the Gate, 'cause there was a fair puddle of blood there, but there weren't any bodies left. And nobody knows what all happened after the lights went out. Except maybe The Boss, and He ain't telling. When the Elf-chick started singing, everybody went nighty-night -- even The Boss, I guess. --Hey, didja know that Balrogs snore? Kinda sounds like bubbling mud.  
  
[provides helpful imitation; both Orcs snicker]  
  
When I woke up, me and some of the lads was first, and there we saw it -- the Iron Crown, right in the middle of the floor, with this broken knife next to it, and only two of the curséd jewels left -- and you know some idiot just has to go and cut his fingers off saying "This doesn't look sharp enough to cut through metal" and his yelling gets the wolves going and that was when we realized that The Boss Himself was -- had been \-- asleep too, cause He jumps up going "--Whuh? Eh? Where is she?!" and kinda looking around squiggle-eyed like He was completely stinking drunk after a good looting spree, ya know?  
  
[leans closer, conspiratorial whisper]  
  
So then He gets a look at the stuff on the floor, and then -- get this -- He actually feels on top of His head to make sure it ain't still there! And then \-- He sees the blood on His hand from the broken-off bit where it hit Him, and starts screaming so loud spit's comin' out of His mouth, completely loses it -- I tell ya, nobody's heard anything like it since that sore loser stuck Him in the foot after we won. Remember that?  
  

Tracker:  
    
Arr! Yeah -- somebody's gotta do a cadence on this. Y'know, have the drum-beat for the crown falls off His head--  
  

Commander:  
    
Huh huh huh -- "Thump!"  
  
[sfx - the amusement is interrupted by a sudden fiery CRACK as a Balrog-whip snaps at them, knocking them out of sight beyond the column. The shadow over there deepens--]  
  

Morgoth: [slowly and ominously]  
    
\--So. You vermin think it's funny, do you?  
  

Gower:  
    
\--Fuel  
cast anew upon the coals of war; reports   
gaining in stature as they lose in truth  
\--yet in truth still less, than simple fact  
plainly told, of odds impossible, forsooth,  
yet accomplishéd, hazards dared and met, act  
and choice, folly indeed, yet shall one say  
greater than that first folly, striving again  
to break the Iron Lord's iron hold, --nor slay  
Kindred in the doing?   
What followed then  
all know, have heard the legends, tales  
sung or half-recounted, how the stolen gem  
retaken was, and then again by sharper tooth  
than any e'er forged by hand or hammer, cut  
with the hand that held it, neither ruth  
nor reason to restrain, ere jaws shut  
in capture vain, that availeth not taker  
nor Master of the same, deadly prize  
that giveth aye power, but withal pain,  
scorching the vessel caught with lies  
and promises of glory, wrought by strain  
of Song unholy to guard rebellion's home,  
mightiest of all that ever was, or shall  
on this sad earth mad-ranting roam.  
  
Those who had seen the hopeless Quest assigned,  
the mocking promise made, the vaunting boast  
returned, as deemed, in vain, anon did find  
that never word lightly-uttered did dearer cost,  
when Carcaroth the Red-Jawed -- the dreadful Thirst  
whose panting desire nothing in life alleving  
that inburnt stone should ever inflame anew -- burst  
the bonds unbroken of great Melian's long weaving  
against all beings dark and fell, being both Light  
and Darkness blent together, two workings of Powers  
earthly and divine: living, Undead, ancient melded might  
newly fashioned into unholy whole, from the towers  
of Angband where long were held--   
  
In those sad hours of shadow's tyranny,  
in weary shame and hangdog penury,  
return the rescued two -- yet now are three,  
with Huan beside, faithful unforsaking,  
knowing not what to find, yet thinking never  
to meet the strong amaze, the outcry making  
hope as of prophetic sign, the crowds ever  
growing in much-garrisoned Menegroth, where  
all needs must gather from the unsure shelter  
of Doriath, seeking defense against a fear  
forgotten for so long a year.  
  
Of revelation,  
vaunt of the Quest accomplished, yet undone,  
of fatal mystery unfolded, of admiration won  
yet half-unwilling, yet wholly given;  
of the great Hunt upon the borders riven  
of the enchanted wood, of the foe driven  
by furious hatred and tormenting inward fire  
\--the tale was told, and told will be in Ages hence;  
as too the last: how Beren took Doom still higher   
upon himself, ceding his life in the King's defense,  
handless to stand battle between his hand's thief  
and his love's father, though hopeless contest   
it should be, and the Deed in ending bring but grief  
to Thingol, that Man despised should prove best   
of friends -- too late, alas! the learning,  
the victory sore tainted with bitter rue  
that mortality win but Death in's earning.  
Nor him alone, before or after, for then too  
Huan at last went to his foretold fate, laid  
dying at slayer's side, and Luthien the Nightingale  
died of heart's breaking like a mortal maid  
in an old song half-forgotten, a foolish tale.  
They judged the file ended, the archive closed.  
\--They erred.  



	2. Act IV, Scene I.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two settings -- this Hall, and elsewhere. Most of the action takes place here.]

  


  
**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

  
_This finale is dedicated with much gratitude to the authors  
of  
The Homecoming of Beortnoth  
and  
A Winter's Tale  
(with special thanks to Lucian of Samasota  
and T. S. Eliot  
for concrete inspiration)_

_\- Disclaimer:  
Valhalla is not mine, either._   


* * *

  
SCENE I.i

  
  

Gower:  
    
The hour nighs, of this our task  
its ending -- and of ye we ask  
but thy patience, lending, till 'tis done --  
\--Then to say, if we have won  
or, overbold, must make redress  
that have so forwardly transgressed  
and in this glassy square presumed  
to bound, as 'twere the Ring of Doom,  
the very gods--  
\--With eagles' wing  
outmatching falcons royal, venturing  
our fancy's flight doth mount on high  
to pass the bord'ring sea, and sky,  
and withal Time -- for naught of wealth  
nor fame, nor glory, nor by stealth,  
nor war to grasp at deathlessness,  
seeking but mercy's sweet largesse  
we dare the holy shores of Westernesse--  
  
  
[Note: There are two settings -- this Hall, and elsewhere. Most of the action takes place here.]  
  
[A cozy family room in Aman, even if it is rather vast and all carved stone with tall ceilings, decorated in soothing shades of grey with discreet silver-white concealed lighting. There is a fountain at one side which is of the kind that is a sheet of water running down a shallow wide channel in the wall, almost invisible and inaudible, to silently fill a wide, shallow, rectangular basin the border of which is almost flush level with the floor.  
  
[Most of another wall is taken up by an enormous structure that somewhat resembles a harness loom, and somewhat resembles a system of barrel vaulting, and mostly resembles something built out of raw cosmic energy, and betrays a long history of tinkering and loving use. At the moment its main central section is alive with an expanse of shimmering light. A majority of the Powers are seated around it watching in rapt attention.]  
  
[Tulkas (who might be played by Massimo Serato from El Cid and sundry Italian swashbucklers and sword-&-sandal epics) leaps to his feet]  
  

Tulkas: [roaring]  
    
NO!!! IT CAN'T END THIS WAY!!! THAT'S JUST WRONG!!! THAT'S NOT HOW THE STORY'S SUPPOSED TO END!!!  
  
[The rest of the Powers wince at the volume of his outrage. Across from him Orome is watching with a sardonically critical expression, his arms folded, leaning slouched way back in his chair. Lawrence Olivier from Hamlet (or possibly equally Kirk Douglas from Spartacus) might stand in for the Lord of the Wild Hunt]  
  

Orome: [bitingly sarcastic patience]  
    
That's because it's reality, not a story, Tulkas. Stories can end happily, because they're not true. In real life, there's no Power capable of preventing people from making idiotic choices and suffering the consequences.  
  
[from the chair next to him, his wife, the Lady of Spring -- who could be depicted by Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra \-- reaches up and pats his cheek.]  
  

Vana:  
    
Don't be obnoxious, Tav' darling. --Nia dear, why do you make us watch these depressing stories? All of your favorites turn out this way.  
  
[to the left of Tulkas, the Lord of Dreams, Visions and Inspirations, (aka Irmo, aka Lorien,) sighs deeply and rests his chin on his hands. Leslie Howard (The Scarlet Pimpernel, Gone With The Wind) could play the part]  
  

Irmo: [sadly]  
    
I tried. I did try. I shan't attempt to conceal the fact that I don't care for her father at all, but I did my best, for her mother's sake, -- and for hers, too -- she really is a sweet child, and not in any way to be blamed for that confounded miscreant's actions--  
  
[On his left the Lord of the Earth shakes his head, grimacing. He is leaning back, but not as much in the sullen critic mode as in the thoughtful critic pose, his legs crossed and one elbow resting on the arm of his faldstool, ready to lecture. He is played, of course, by James Mason from 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea]  
  

Aule:  
    
You couldn't have done anything, he was Doomed from the start. Look at how he threw away every opportunity he had for survival. If someone tries that hard to destroy themselves, the most that anyone else can do is -- get out of the way and look for cover.  
  
[on the floor, sitting in front of the chairs with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them like a child, Nienna (who really should be played by Merle Oberon, also of Scarlet Pimpernel renown) looks up at Yavanna, who is seated rigidly on the other side of her little sister Vana; the Earthqueen could be well-portrayed by Sophia Loren from El Cid.]  
  

Nienna:  
    
Are you going to be all right?  
  

Yavanna: [biting off the syllable]  
    
No.  
  
[At equal distances from the Loom and the fountain is a nook with a sconce, two chairs, and a small breakfast table. This is occupied by Namo, Vaire, a pair of teacups and a dark, glossy sphere. The Lord and Lady of the Halls should be portrayed respectively by Gregory Peck (To Kill A Mockingbird, Captain Horatio Hornblower) and Virginia McKenna BThe Cruel Sea, Waterloo).]  
  

Vaire: [sighing]  
    
I don't mind your sister inviting everyone over to watch the Loom, but really, she could have chosen better timing. But I don't like to say anything because she does so much to help.  
  

Namo: [sets down his teacup and takes her hand in his]  
    
No, it's fine. I just wish they wouldn't be so loud. I come here to get away from people shouting at me. --Of course, they're not shouting at me, to be fair about it.  
  
[he lets go of her hand and picks up his cup again -- over it, in a very dry tone:]  
  
\--Not yet.  
  
[she gives him a wry smile, which turns to a grimace at the next high-volume exchange:]  
  

Orome: [raising his voice and dropping the bored facade for a moment]  
    
Yes, it WAS his fault. He didn't give her a chance to use her powers again, he just flung himself in the way without even the preliminaries of thought crossing his brain.  
  

Tulkas: [to Vana]  
    
\--You'd better hope you're never in danger when he's around. Sounds like he'd let you fend for yourself if a rampaging demon comes along!  
  

Aule: [patiently]  
    
My valiant friend, I realize that your generous and sympathetic nature prompts you to defend all instances of courage and loyalty, but not every self-sacrifice is equally meritorious. When it is unnecessary, as in the situation under debate, it is simply at best a mistake and at worst histrionics. --I'm still not entirely sure about the next occasion, myself: I'd need to review it before reaching a decision.  
  

Irmo: [frowning]  
    
I really don't think she could have done anything further at that point. Binding all the denizens of Thangorodrim within the immediate vicinity, not to mention resisting and overcoming the Powerful One in combat, would be a severe drain upon even my own abilities--  
  

Tulkas: [all innocence]  
    
\--You mean to say you can take Morgoth out, and you haven't done it yet? What's wrong with you!?  
  

Yavanna: [standing up so suddenly that her chair goes over backwards with a crash]   
    
Oh, you're all horrible. Horrible, HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE!!!  
  
[Everyone looks up at her, and is very quiet]  
  

Aule: [after a moment]  
    
Where are you going?  
  

Yavanna: [very tight control]  
    
Out. For a walk. Someplace where I can break things without hurting anyone--!  
  
[she strides off into the distant shadows and there is a resounding crash as of someone flinging a very heavy door violently open so that it rebounds off the wall, with breakages. A moment of utter silence follows.]  
  

Aule: [grimacing]  
    
Ah. I forgot.  
  

Irmo:  
    
Oh, that's right -- he's one of hers.  
  

Vana: [rolling her eyes]  
    
Well, of course! Whose else would he be?  
  
[silence. Everyone looks at Orome]  
  

Orome:  
    
Yes, but I am more rational about these things.  
  

Tulkas: [to Aule]  
    
Go after her and tell her you're sorry, you dolt!  
  

Aule: [shaking his head]  
    
That would be a very bad idea right now.  
  
[this builds up into a double argument, as the focus moves back to the tea table]  
  

Namo: [wincing]  
    
I didn't recall there being a door over there.  
  

Vaire:  
    
There wasn't.  
  
[sighs]  
  
At least--  
  
[pause -- they look at each other, and say together:]  
  

Namo:  

Vaire:  
  
    
\--"it wasn't a supporting wall--"  
  
[rueful smiles]  
  

Namo:  
    
Did you ever get an explanation of all that?  
  

Vaire:  
    
An explanation? Yes. --One that made sense? I'm afraid the answer is no.   
  

Namo: [scowling]  
    
You weren't being mocked, dear?  
  

Vaire:  
    
No, not at all -- it was offered quite sincerely. I just don't believe it's possible, but I'm not sure what the real alternative would look like.  
  
[Her husband shakes his head, snorting]  
  
I made the mistake of asking one of them to show me how it was done, and I forgot it was the one who doesn't want to be noticed, so I had to pretend that I didn't realize it, or how nervous he was. --It really is disproportionate, isn't it? By comparison, I mean. You wouldn't think, considering who else is here, the amount of trouble so few could cause . . .  
  
[sighs]  
  
I'm afraid I lost my temper rather the last time someone started in about the usual, "Why are they permitted to carry? Why is no one else allowed a retinue?" and was very cross about it -- I actually said, in far too short a tone, "Because we're capricious and we enjoy playing favorites, that's why." Now I'm rather afraid it won't be recognized as sarcasm. What I should have said--  
  
[another rueful smile]  
  
\--was, "It's an experiment of my sister-in-law's; she's trying to see how many idiotic questions it will take to completely destroy all vestiges of my patience."  
  
[After a moment Namo lifts his eyebrows and gives a short chuckle, before patting her hand.]  
  
Who knows? It might even be true.  
  

Namo:  
    
No, I . . . I think she'd mention it, if she were doing anything of the sort.  
  
[from the other side of the room]  
  

Tulkas: [loud]  
    
But look, you've got to take into account all the things going against him--  
  
[the Lord and Lady of the Halls share another wince as the camera shifts back to the raging debate by the Loom]  
  
On the one hand you've got the rebels giving up defending his homeland, so does he give up? No, he keeps on trying even though there's nothing in it for him any more -- and does a smashing job of it, too, I want to make known. And you know I'm hard to impress when it comes to fighting--   
  

Orome: [ironic]  
  
    
\--Easily impressed when it comes to pretty much everything else, though.  
  

Tulkas: [louder]  
    
\--On the other hand you've got him making a decent go of it with no help, and no resources whatsoever -- and sticking to his ideals, too, all the way up to when they were betrayed. None of this, "Oh, we're the great Lords of the West, here to save you, so give us dinner and why don't you bake us a cake while you're at it," Returning nonsense.  
  

Orome: [exasperated]  
    
You're exaggerating grossly again--  
  

Tulkas: [ignoring him]  
    
And on the other hand, he's just a Man. Not even an Elf! And look what he did!  
  

Orome: [snippy]  
    
What other hand?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
You'd think we could have managed to give him a little more help, couldn't we? Couldn't we? Like something useful, like messages -- and messengers -- that get there in time--  
  
[to Irmo]  
  
\-- not that I'm saying it wasn't kind of you to help his friend find him, but it's not like it actually made any difference, eh? Or how about something specific, like Don't Go On That Hunt, Dummy, -- instead of more nightmares about overfed rogue Ainur?  
  
[as if remembering something unpleasant, Aule shakes his head and snaps his fingers]  
  

Irmo: [angry/upset]  
    
I told you, don't blame me \-- it's hard enough without the Trees, but there's nothing I can do with people who simply refuse to sleep. If they won't rest long enough for me to reach them, or keep creating so many images of doom on their own that they can't tell them apart -- I can't give them any guidance.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
So basically, what you're saying is, you can only help people who don't really need it.  
  

Irmo:  
    
That isn't fair\--   
[An elegant, confident individual, perhaps played by Sir Alec Guiness from Kind Hearts and Coronets, appears discreetly beside Aule's chair and gives him a graceful bow]  
  

Aule's Assistant:  
    
Yes, my lord?  
  

Aule:  
    
Would you go and make sure all the storm-doors and shutters are closed around the place? I don't want the firepits getting flooded out again this time.  
  

Aule's Assistant:  
    
Of course, sir. --Ah, are you anticipating a recurrence of last year's gales this season, or is it merely precautionary, milord?  
  

Aule:  
    
Anticipating. Very definitely anticipating.  
  

Assistant:  
    
Oh dear.  
  
[pause]  
  
If I may make so bold, my lord, the Lady's temper can be quite trying at times.  
  

Aule: [shaking his head with a gloomy look]  
    
Eh. It's partly my fault again. --I just hate it when she gets together and commiserates with Uinen. They encourage each other in this pointless emotionalism, and the electrical storms and the flooding make it so blasted difficult to get anything done. --Do you know what that project is they're working on together?  
  

Assistant:  
    
Something about salt. That's all the information I have, sir -- she asked me for information about materials that would combine well with salt.  
  

Aule: [nods]  
    
\--Oh, that's right. They're studying "toxicity levels and self-sustaining filtration systems in marginal areas," as I recall. I should ask her how that's coming along. That would be a nice thing to do.  
  

Assistant:  
    
A noble and conciliating gesture, sir.  
  

Aule:  
    
\--Have you seen my wife's  
secretary around anywhere?  
  
[his aide gives a derisive laugh]  
  

Assistant:  
    
He's probably off watching frogs turn into tadpoles or talking to potato-beetles or something like that.  
  

Aule: [frowns]  
    
Isn't it the other way 'round?  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I don't remember. Anyway -- tell him to tell her I'm sorry, all right?  
  

Assistant:  
    
Very good, sir.  
  

Aule:  
    
And don't forget the skylights!  
  

Assistant:  
    
Of course not, my lord.  
  
[he vanishes as quietly as he came]  
  

Tulkas: [loudly offended]  
    
Yeah? Well, -- none of my champions have gone over to the other side!  
  

Orome: [ice -- not quiet, either]  
    
Celegorm Feanorion has NOT been my responsibility since the Rebellion.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Good try, but you can't wiggle out that easy. If you'd done your job right he wouldn't have rebelled now would he? Huh? Got a snappy comeback for that one?  
  

Orome: [shaking his head]  
    
What my sister sees in you I will never know.  
  
[pause]  

Tulkas:  
    
That's pretty good, actually. --I need a drink to clear my mind.  
  

Orome:  
    
You always need a drink, if that's the case.  
  

Irmo: [raising his voice]   
    
\--Can we please at least endeavor to keep this discussion both civil and to the point?  
  

Vana:  
    
I do hope you didn't mean that as a serious question, Irmo.  
  
[Back at the tea table, the Weaver rests her forehead on her hand, laughing in spite of herself, and in dismay]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Are you sure you don't want me to stay here and you go on the floor? Though it won't be any quieter, I'm afraid. I do wish it weren't against the Rules to manifest corporeally in several places at the same time. I wonder how one would go about doing so . . .?  
  

Namo:  
    
It -- seems like the sort of thing that would be very inadvisable. Which is very likely why there's a Rule about it.  
  
[frowns still more]  
\--Which you would your mind be in? Wouldn't the rest just be puppets then? Or would you divide your concentration among all of you? I'm not sure either.  
  

Vaire: [smiles]  
    
And a divided concentration is just the problem. So do you want me to stay by the stone while you take my shift?  
  
[Her husband shakes his head]  
  

Namo:  
    
No, I really don't have the patience for any more complaints right now.  
  
[deep sigh]  
  
Did I tell you about my last conversation with that fellow, the one who's always going on and on -- inaccurately -- about being the First Casualty in Beleriand?   
  

Vaire: [interested]  
    
No, I don't believe you did.  
  

Namo:  
    
We talked -- and talked, and talked, and he agreed with complete sincerity that yes, murder was a terrible thing, and yes, there is a moral responsibility as well for actions which, though not directly causing the deaths of specific individuals, nevertheless are both freely chosen and known in advance to be likely to cause casualties -- such as, for example, shooting fire-arrows into adjacent buildings to distract the defenders from their efforts, regardless of the fact that people are almost certain to be in those buildings, and not necessarily able to get out of them in time. And we talked about how Morgoth regards people as chattel in a similar way, and how persons are not things to be used and/or discarded for one's own purposes, and about the irony of performing such actions in a reaction against the behaviour of the Enemy.  
  
[odd smile]  
  
And after all that, he said to me, "But they deserved it."  
  
[the Weaver sighs, and raises her eyebrows with a wry expression]  
  

Vaire:  
    
That does sound familiar, doesn't it?  
  

Namo: [pensively]  
    
You know, it's one thing to know intellectually that this is going to go on -- and on -- and on, for the foreseeable future, and -- quite another to experience it day after day after endless day.  
  
[his wife smiles sadly at him and gives his hand one last squeeze before getting up and leaving the table. The crystal ball on the table begins to glow.]  
  

Namo:  
    
Oh good, someone's checking in. Perhaps they've got him.  
  
[He sets down his tea and pulls the palantir over to him eagerly. Vaire walks across to the Loom, weaving on mostly unobserved by the debaters]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Is anyone still watching this?   
  
[nobody except her sister-in-law even notices her question]  
  

Nienna:  
    
Please leave it open, would you?  
  

Vaire:  
    
Not a problem, just fold it up when you're done.  
  
[she leaves, stopping to patch up the irregular hole in the wall -- which looks rather like what happens when a tree grows through a slab, only fast enough that the edges are still sharp and not eroded away -- with a wave of her hand, on her way to the tall pointed arch that is the actual door.]  
  

Vana:  
    
Well, I thought he was rather cute, even if he was rather stupid --  
  
[to her husband]  
  
\--rather like one of the puppies, hm?  
  

Orome:  
    
My dear, puppies usually don't manage to leave scores of casualties behind them as a consequence of their mistakes.  
  
[she gives him a little swat and makes a face at him]  
  

Tulkas: [roaring]  
    
CONSEQUENCES?!? If you're going to talk about consequences, what about the consequences of us not catching Morgoth? Huh? Huh? Before you start throwing big words like "consequences" around, what about the consequences of not providing adequate inspiration? In the Song, do I have to do it ALL myself to get anything done RIGHT?   
  
[the Lord of the Halls winces and puts a hand to his temple]  
  

Namo:  
    
I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that again?  
  

Irmo: [raising his voice too]  
    
I'm getting tired of hearing you talk about something you don't and can't possibly understand--  
  

Namo:  
    
A dog? What do you mean, a dog? Kelvar don't belong here, they don't need to come here, they can just start right over again -- you know that! Tell it to go home. --I don't care what size it is, it still doesn't belong here. Unless it's that rogue in disguise. Of course I'm joking. No, we haven't got him yet. --Yes, that's why I'm in a bad mood. --Just take care of it, will you?   
  
[he leans back, closing his eyes and shaking his head]  
  

Aule: [cool voice of reason -- and sarcasm]  
    
Thank you for letting us know how you feel about it, Lord Astaldo. --Getting back to my earlier point -- I don't believe you can legitimately give someone credit for what they can't help. If the deed's done under any kind of a compulsion, it's invalidated to some extent. Obviously there's a compulsion operating here to fling one's self between other individuals -- regardless of longevity or depth of personal attachment -- and danger. If one cannot prevent one's self from getting in harm's way, the correct response -- and again, I'm going on logic here -- isn't admiration, but rather pity.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Oh, come on! He practically slaps Morgoth upside the head, and you can't even manage a "Good job, what!"  
  

Vana: [mischievous]  
    
Well, he did hit Morgoth in the head, only it wasn't exactly on purpose . . .  
  

Orome: [innocently]  
  
    
Hey, Aule -- what's that you always say about using the right tools for the job?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Yeah? Well let me tell you, your fancy tools wouldn't help either of you very much out in the Void! You should try it sometime, fighting like real gods with nothing but your bare power--  
  

Orome:  
    
\--Speaking of which, don't you get chilly running around in just a skirt?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
It's not a skirt, it's a kilt, you dimwit! How many times have I told you that?   
  
[Vana giggles and hides it by snuggling against Orome's shoulder]  
  

Irmo: [sternly and loudly]  
    
These insults are utterly pointless! Can we have some intellectual discussion, please?!  
  

Namo: [shouting louder than any of them]  
    
Irmo! Nienna! Everybody!  
  
[when he has their attention -- normal tone:]  
  
Would you all please either stop acting like Eldar or go someplace else and argue? If you can't keep your voices down I'm going to have to ask you to take it to the Mahanaxar. You're not even watching the Loom any more.  
  
[there are guilty looks among his colleagues and kin -- considering glances are exchanged. Consensus -- No, they can't keep it down. They start getting up to leave]  
  

Vana: [rolling her eyes]  
    
"Acting like Eldar," indeed! --Honestly--  
  
[they vanish, leaving the chairs behind]  
  

Namo: [muttering to self]  
    
I suppose there's a certain logic to it, but I hate it when catastrophes happen in cascades like this. They seem to bring on unrelated incidents, as though chaos has come back into fashion all of the sudden.  
[he gets up and starts pacing up and down restlessly, obviously not happy at not being able to do anything -- then notices Nienna still curled up in front of the Loom]  
Nia, I could really use a little help right now. We have a crisis situation going on, the trauma department is overwhelmed with new arrivals, there's a discorporate rogue Ainu out there it looks like I'm going to have to track down personally, now I hear some kind of bizarre bureaucratic foul-up is giving my security people fits -- and you're watching the news.  
  

Nienna: [patient annoying-sibling mode]  
    
\-- Don't worry, I'm on it, I've got the situation in hand.  
  

Namo: [flings up his hands and walks back to his chair]  
  
    
Fine. I give up. It's not as though anyone ever listens until it's too late.  
[sinking down with a sigh]  
  
What next . . . ?  
  



	3. Scene I.ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE I.ii

  
  
    
[Elsewhere: outside the Halls of Mandos, in the perpetual twilight at the roots of the mountains. A series of low, shallow, wide stone steps leads up to the most imposing doors that have ever been built, or will be. No one is present, until Luthien enters (quite literally from the shadows) at the foot of the staircase. Like all the shades in the underworld, where everything is in shades of grey, she does not look "ghostly", i.e. translucent and out-of-place -- this place is made for them, after all; it's the living who would appear not to belong properly. She looks neatly but simply dressed, rather as she would have at the beginning of the play, but without any jewelry and her face is haggard.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well. Here we are.  
  
[she looks up at the Doors and gives a huge sigh]  
  
The end of the journey. Nothing could be easy, could it?  
  
[she gives an odd laugh, shaking her head]  
  
The doors are closed -- I could still turn back now, perhaps even go home, or not: this isn't horrible, or particularly frightening. I've given up everything, for him, or so they'd say -- and it doesn't feel that way at all. It seems as if I could reach out my hand and take hold of the very elements of the universe like a skein of yarn this way, or see through to the Fire at the heart of everything, if I only looked hard enough, as if I could become anything I chose -- a tree, or an Eagle, or a Hound like Huan, or even one of the stars . . .  
  
[she wraps her arms around herself and shivers, beginning to walk back and forth as she talks to herself, moving up and down the lower terraces of the stairs]  
  
I don't have to go through with this -- no one is going to take this decision away from me -- and that's why I have to.  
  
[Her appearance shimmers and flickers while she paces, eventually mostly settling to the bobbed haircut and shadowcloak of her journeying, the former somewhat longer (and wilder) than when last we saw her.]  
  
Everything seems so distant, small and delicate and quite irrelevant, like the city I saw from the air. Not compared with the whole cosmos lying open to explore. --But that tiny little flower of a city is full of people, each with a life that's important to someone else, too, and things they've done and learned and new songs they've made, even if I couldn't see that. And I know that Middle-earth is important, even if it seems such a small part of the Music I can almost hear now.  
  
[smiling wryly]  
  
That's it, isn't it, the Song itself that's calling me to join in it, to be like a god myself, to make, and change the world, and once again do one better than my mother, even if no one ever knows it. Couldn't I do better than the rest of them, since I know how it is out there, since I've lived through it -- and died -- all of it, the good -- the gloriously good -- as well as the unspeakably horrible -- couldn't I move through it and speak through it and change it like the Lord of the Sea? And wouldn't that be a better memorial to Beren than staying here as a ghost, giving up my endless life and the whole wide world outside, to be with him, if only they'll let me?  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
I know what he'd say. And then we'd fight.  
  
[gesturing with her hands]  
  
If only I'd come straight to the Halls -- it can't be this hard for everyone, can it? -- and then I could have just answered when they asked me, and I wouldn't have to think about it. But this -- there's no getting away from this, that once I cross that threshold, there's no going back -- even if Lord Mandos would let me. I can't just keep going on momentum alone, not stopping to think about it.   
  
[pause]   
  
And I'm afraid. I don't know what will happen, I don't know what I'll say, I don't know what they'll say. I might make things worse for him this way, though I can't think how. And if they refuse, what happens then? How can I stay there forever, knowing that I couldn't save him, and with no place left to go -- no action I can take, nothing to do but wait for the world to end to put an end to my pain? I thought nothing could be worse than the prospect of going home to my parents in failure --  
  
[checks, looking dismayed]  
  
\--but what if they send me back? I can't stay there with what they did to us, dealing with that guilt and sentimentality and trying to make it up to me by being kind \-- I really would go mad within a year of that. If they'd shown Beren some pity at the outset -- or thought at all about me instead of themselves -- this wouldn't have happened. But I won't be the victim to their consciences.  
  
[she snorts, starting to get angry]  
  
I'll go live as a hermit in the Seven Rivers district before that, or maybe go to the Havens and see the Ocean for real finally, or try to cross the mountains and find Celeborn and Galadriel and their following. I can do that now, or at least I have as good a chance as anyone does. I don't need anyone else in the world, if I can't have Beren, and if they "need" me that's just too bad!  
  
[she wipes her eyes roughly, and gives an ironic smile.]  
  
Silly, silly, silly \-- getting all upset over possibilities that haven't even happened yet, and that I've no way to judge the most likely. I'm so tired of it all . . . only I'm not, or maybe I am. --But I can't stop, and I'm afraid to go forward, and no one can help me now.  
  
[she stands still for a moment, looking up the steps, and squares her shoulders.]  
  
Well. I didn't get this far waiting for people to open doors for me.  
  
[starts to approach the Doors, hesitates again.]  
  
Oh, I wish you were with me, Huan. But this isn't like last time: I'm afraid it won't end happily. -- Then again, I can't think of a single story that does. Not the true ones, at least.  
  
[Sighs.]  
  
No more disguises. No more tricks. All I can do is tell the truth now, and hope that that's enough.  
  
[She casts her cloak down on the steps: it melts and vanishes into the shadows]  
  
Beren -- I'm here.  
  
[She strides towards the Doors, and they melt away in front of her as she enters the Halls of Mandos.]  
  



	4. Scene I.iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  


**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE I.iii

  
  
    
[The Hall.]  
  
[Namo is sitting pensively by the palantir, fiddling with his teacup. Nienna is still on the floor in front of the Loom, watching with an odd, almost-pleased expression. An Elvish-looking individual (who could be played by Ewan MacGregor from the second Star Wars series) enters the hall and crosses quickly to where she is sitting. Ordinarily he seems like he'd be rather cheerful and self-possessed, but right now he's looking rather harassed and frayed, and it comes through when he addresses her:]  
  
\--Master, everything's in chaos, nobody knows what to do, everyone's asking me for advice, some people are continuing to complain about certain other people and refusing to countenance the possibility that their problems just might not be as serious as those who have just come in and demanding to see the Lady of the Halls at once, and they're all unhappy with me because I'm not you!  
  

Nienna:  
    
Apprentice mine, have you considered how much worse matters could be?  
  

Nienna's Apprentice:  
    
Er -- no, I haven't, m'lady.  
  

Nienna:  
    
Why don't you do that?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Was that a question question, or a suggestion question?  
  

Nienna:  
    
What do you think?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Both.  
  

Nienna:  
    
Let me know when you have an answer; I'll be interested in hearing it.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Certainly. But none of this helps with the fact that everything's in chaos and I really need Lady Vaire and she can't be everywhere at once!  
  
[Nienna sighs]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I know. I don't really need the Lady of the Halls, I just need to keep reminding myself that I have been delegated the authority and I do have the intelligence to solve small problems on my own and the confidence to not be overwhelmed by the troublemakers along with it. --But there are just so bloody many of them!  
  

Nienna:  
    
You want me to come rescue you.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No. Well, yes. But not really. I want to be rescued, but I don't want the consequences of being rescued, to wit -- losing even more ground to the insufferable Feanorians and looking a total fool in front of everyone else and causing increased doubt and discord as a result. --I'm going back to work. Thank you.  
  
[he starts to walk away]  
  

Namo: [sighing]  
    
When you said you had everything under control, I should have known that meant you were delegating.  
  

Nienna:  
    
Of course. Micromanagement is poor Melkor's besetting weakness.  
  
[her brother closes his eyes and rubs his temples. Halfway to the door the Apprentice halts in mid-stride, pivots on his heel and hurries back over]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I almost forgot completely -- Sir, there's a young lady here who insists on seeing you personally and immediately. She says her mother used to work for your brother.  
  

Namo: [looking blank]  
    
So why does she want to see me instead of Irmo?  
  

Apprentice: [delicately]  
    
Er -- because she's here.  
  

Namo:  
    
Oh. You mean she's discorporate. Why can't you just say so?  
  
[the Apprentice winces a little]  
  
Can you tell her I'm in the middle of about six different things and I will see her as soon as I can?  
  

Apprentice:   
    
I've done that.  
  

Namo:  
    
Can you explain that things are not going well and that while everyone's problems are important, not all of them are crises?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
That too.  
  
[Namo sighs]  
  
She really won't take no  
for an answer. I keep giving it to her, and she keeps refusing it.  
  

Namo:  
    
Can you tell her it isn't  
fair to the others ahead of her?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
She says it's a matter of justice, and she refuses to go until her case is heard.  
  

Namo: [shaking his head]  
    
Wait, wait, what do you mean -- "go" --? People don't just come and go from my Halls without leave.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, she apparently came on her own. It seems her consort was one of the recently admitted.  
  

Namo: [snorts]  
    
Did you tell her her case was hardly unique?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I did, Sir -- but I'm not entirely sure I was correct. She doesn't seem to have come in the normal way at all. There was some peculiar talk about Thorondor and "hitching a ride" -- a quaint turn of phrase which I believe, though I'd have to consult the Archives to be sure, derives from a mortal practice concerning a crude form of wheeled vessel known as, erm, a "cart." I confess that ordinarily I would simply dismiss it as the normal, ah, post-discorporation trauma, or possibly prior mental derangement -- but there's something about her that causes me to be uncertain of that diagnosis.  
  
[pause]  
  
She really is very insistent, Sir.  
  
[pause]  
  

Namo:  
    
You're intimidated by her.  
  
[Nienna's student makes as though to deny it, with indignation -- and then sighs]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Frankly, my Lord, yes. In all honesty -- she reminds me of Feanor.  
  
[silence]  
  

Namo: [shaking his head]  
    
No. There cannot be two Eldar in the universe that obliviously self-centered and full of destructive energy. I refuse to believe it. Ea would disintegrate.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
It's the obdurate refusal to be put off. --And the way she sounds totally believable saying the most insane things.  
  

Namo:  
    
What are her names?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
She only gave one -- "Nightingale." --She said it as though it should mean something, when I asked her who she was, and she told me her maternal parent was formerly in the employ of your sibling.  
  

Namo: [musing]  
    
Nightingales, nightingales \-- why do they sound familiar?  
  

Apprentice: [hopefully]  
    
I could go check the Archive, if you'd like.  
  

Namo: [snorts]  
    
So you can skive out of dealing with the discorporate? Fat chance. No -- I think there's some connection that I should remember -- why don't you go ask Irmo if "nightingale" means anything to him. There's an errand you can run.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Er, you could use the remote there -- why not just ask him?  
  

Namo:  
    
Because you're annoying me. Because I'm waiting to hear from security about that rogue, among other things.  
  

Apprentice: [disappointed]  
    
Oh.  
  
[starts to leave, turns back again]  
  
Sir, didn't Melian have nightingales? And aren't all these new patients from the place where she settled down? Dorl -- Dorith -- one of those Dor\-- names?  
  
[long pause. Namo frowns, then sets down his teacup with a bang]  
  

Namo: [wearily]  
    
All right. I'll talk to her.  
  
[he turns his chair about to face into the room]  
  

Apprentice: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
\--Actually, Sir, I think the word you want is --"listen."  
  



	5. Act IV, Scene II - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are no obvious sfx -- no flashes, no "magical" sounds -- it's just there.) Manifesting a drinking horn:]

  


**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE II**

  
  

Gower:  
    
\--That Melian's daughter made her way  
to Mandos' Halls, and there did win  
her way as well, with imploring song,  
and of her thought and melody did spin  
a thread to bind the sternest and most strong  
to clemency -- this all do remember well.   
But of the rest, that followed ere the Choice  
little is said, and less considered: how still  
much ado was made, high counsels held, voice  
upraised to counter and to question,  
troubling the highest, making them to pause  
and ponder long with sad consideration  
this strange matter of their love, and cause  
that Luthien upholds, appeals, maintains  
with such unreservéd zeal that even yet,  
beyond the Bent World's verge, her strains  
are sung in deathless memory, past the set  
of Sun, of Moon, by gods and Elven-kind  
until the ending of all things shall find  
even the stars and that unstained land--  
  
  
[The Hall. There is a difference -- where the tea-table occupied an alcove under a lamp, there is now a vast double throne under an arch, with only the lamp, the occupant, and the stone sphere resting on the dividing arm of the throne the same. In the background, Nienna is still paying attention to the Loom. Before the throne, Luthien is looking up at Namo with a desperate expression. ]  
  

Namo:  
    
I -- I'm sorry, I was thinking about what you'd just said -- I . . . missed your last remark.  
  
[he wipes at his eyes, shaking his head a little]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Might I please speak to him now, my Lord?  
  
[pause]  
  

Namo:  
    
I . . . am not sure how to break this to you, but he -- he isn't here.  
  

Luthien: [frightened]  
    
He has to be.  
  

Namo:  
    
No, I'm afraid that isn't the case. Except for those who give themselves to the Enemy during their lifetimes, or have ties to their own place that are strong enough to override the call of their Fate, mortals do not remain in Arda.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But he wouldn't have lingered back there -- he's not evil, he has no one left besides me, and he knows I'll come here too.  
  

Namo:  
    
But Men don't stay here -- they go on from the Halls to their own destiny beyond Ea.  
  
[pause]  
  
I'm sorry.  
  

Luthien: [becoming increasingly frantic]  
    
But I told him to wait for me! I -- I came as fast as I could -- how long has it been? You didn't -- you didn't send him on without me -- please tell me you didn't! Surely he would have explained --  
  
[greater apprehension]  
  
\--but what if he couldn't--  
  
[sudden notion]  
  
\--is Huan here?  
  

Namo: [bewildered]  
    
Why would he be here? He isn't an Elf -- he belongs to Orome.  
  

Luthien:  
    
No. He belongs to Beren now. And me. I'm sure he would be waiting for us here somewhere. He might be looking after him--  
  

Namo: [frowning]  
    
That's the second time dogs have come up in recent conversation. Very peculiar.  
  

Nienna: [from where she's sitting, not looking over]  
    
If you'd been paying attention to the news, or even what's going on under your own roof, you'd understand. You need to remember the big picture, not just focus on the organizational details, Namo.  
  

Namo: [giving her an exasperated look]  
    
Be a little more cryptic, would you? Ah --  
  
[realization hits]  
  
Aaha. The kid with the dog.  
  

Luthien:  
    
They're here? He's still here?  
  
[he nods, picking up the sphere]  
  

Namo:  
    
\--Security, please. --Just how big is that dog, anyway? Uh-huh. I see. Can you put my wife on, please? --Vaire, things have just gotten a little more complicated. --If you can believe it. I know. Look, I need you to talk to that mortal again. He hasn't been rude to you, has he? No, apparently he has some kind of aphasia problem, but he's not deaf. Would you ask him if he's Beren Barahirion? -- and if he is, tell him that Luthien is here and would like to speak with him, and ask him if he would be so good as to come over here. His dog can come too. --Has the dog been rude to you? Well, I'm going to have a little talk with Orome about him. -- Yes, that's right. Love you too.   
  
[sets down palantir, sighs and shakes his head with a pained expression]  
  
I find it difficult to believe that all this madness really is connected. It's almost enough to make one think that order is an illusion.  
  

Nienna:  
    
Why do you think I've been watching all along? It takes patience to see the patterns.  
  
[her brother half-smiles]  
  

Namo: [to Luthien]  
    
\--Yes. He's here, beneath this roof, and will be here directly.  
  

Luthien: [whispering]  
    
Thank you. --Thank you--  
  
[Enter Nienna's Apprentice, and Huan, who sniffs the air and looks towards the Loom, keening softly. Beren is between them, holding onto Huan's collar for balance. He is more bowed and tattered than in Act II, wearing a motley layered assortment of frayed rags and well-made tailoring (all far too large), his head low, his right arm held stiffly by his side. He looks like a defeated veteran of a long campaign stumbling home from the wars.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Beren.  
  
[he lifts his head and looks over blankly towards her -- and then he seems to recognize her and lets go of Huan to hurl himself at her in a controlled collapse as she runs to catch him, locking her arms around his back as he leans against her shoulder, eyes closed, oblivious to the rest of his surroundings. Luthien stands there holding him close, crying, unable to speak right away. After a few moments they straighten and look at each other, though she does not let go of him any more than he tries to step away:]  
  
Are you all right?  
  
[he nods. Worried:]  
  
Can you talk?  
  

Beren: [with visible effort]  
    
Yes.  
  
[wry smile]  
  
It's hard.  
  
[suddenly]  
  
\--Where's Huan?  
  

Luthien: [more worried]  
    
He's right here, on the other side of me.  
  
[Huan comes closer; Beren does not react until the Hound whines]  
  
Beren, can you see?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
I can see you. The rest -- is all grey and lights.  
  
[she is very upset, far more than he is]  
  
It's a little bit better now.  
  

Apprentice: [who has been standing awkwardly to the side]  
    
There isn't much more to see than "grey and lights", I'm afraid.  
  
[at Namo's stern Look]  
  
No criticism of your Lady's decorating scheme was -- well, I'm afraid it was, rather, but, erm -- it could be a lot worse.  
  

Namo:  
    
Why don't you go find something to do while they make their goodbyes, hm?  
  

Luthien: [disbelieving]  
    
Goodbyes?!? What do you mean?!  
  

Namo: [gently]  
    
So that he can be on his way.  
  

Luthien: [horrified]  
    
What!?  
  

Namo: [frowning]  
    
Isn't that what you wanted? Since you didn't get the chance to speak together before his dissolution?  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head]  
    
No! I mean, yes but not just that, I want to stay with him -- him to stay with me, always.  
  
[she is on the edge of tears, and holds onto Beren tighter than ever. Huan presses up against them both, looking anxious]  
  

Namo:  
    
But that isn't possible.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Why not?  
  

Namo:  
    
Because the One has organized the universe otherwise. He isn't supposed to stay here. But you know this. So make your farewells, and let him go.  
  

Luthien: [mournfully]  
    
I may have emphasizedthe part about how we didn't get a chance to even say goodbye properly a little too much. My Lord, please, can't you make an exception?  
  

Namo:  
    
No. I didn't make the Law.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But you're in charge here.  
  

Namo:  
    
I administer the Law. But I do not have the power to change it.  
  

Luthien: [fraying]  
    
I didn't come all this way just to have him taken away from me again. I will not let this happen.  
  

Namo:  
    
Luthien, I'm afraid you don't understand.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I understand very well, my Lord, and I don't care.  
  

Beren: [uneven smile]  
    
Haven't we done this before?  
  

Namo: [sighing]  
    
Please try to look at it rationally. I agree that it is a terrible tragedy, but you knew that your husband was mortal and under a separate Doom before you married him. The tragic shortness of your marriage does not change that essential fact.  
  

Luthien: [desperate]  
    
Then can we at least have an entire lifetime here before he has to go? We're owed at least that!  
  

Namo:  
    
Very few people, in this world, get what they deserve. It shouldn't have happened this way, you're right.  
  

Luthien: [hopeful]  
    
And?  
  

Namo:  
    
And it's unfortunate. Most unfortunate. That's why I'm giving you a chance to have a good memory, before he goes.  
  

Luthien: [strongly]  
    
\--No. Beren is staying with me.  
  

Apprentice: [nervously]  
    
Your Highness, that's not--  
  

Luthien: [sarcastic]  
    
What, will he blast me if I defy him?  
  

Namo: [dry]  
    
No, that isn't my style. You need to reconcile yourself to facts, Luthien.  
  

Luthien:  
    
If someone says that to me one more time, I'm going to scream until the roof falls in. I know what the facts are. I want solutions! And acceptable ones! This -- saying goodbye to Beren so that he can be kicked out yet again like a trespassing vagabond -- is not an acceptable solution. You've got to do better.  
  
[the Lord of the Halls gives a short laugh and closes his eyes]  
  

Namo:  
    
You understand I really do not have the time to spare, even though I'm making it.  
  

Luthien: [snappish]  
    
Well, we jolly well didn't have it either. Don't try to make me feel sorry for you, it won't work.  
  
[the Apprentice covers his face with his hand]  
  
Why can't you even make an exeption to the rules?  
  

Namo: [patiently]  
    
Because it is not a Rule, it is the Law. And it would not be fair to him.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I don't understand--  
  

Namo:  
    
I know.  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--How could it not be fair to him? He's the one who's been cheated most by all this!  
  

Namo:  
    
You wish to keep him here, in this fragmentary state, because of your affection for him. But he is not made for this place, nor this state, because he is not like you.  
  
[gesturing]  
  
Look at him. Do you want to hold him in that, without any hope of being rehoused, without the natural properties that make such a mode endurable, alone and severed from his own kind, until you've decided that you've had him long enough? What does he think of all this? Have you even asked him, or simply laid commands on him?  
  
[Luthien looks defiant, but increasingly anxious]  
  

Apprentice: [thoughtfully]  
    
Sir, could perhaps something be done -- to some small area, to make it less overwhelming to his senses?  
  

Namo:  
    
I don't know. Nor do I know yet what his feelings on the matter are.  
  
[to Beren:]  
  
\--Beren son of Barahir.  
  
[Beren starts and tries to focus on the Lord of the Halls]  
  
What do you want?  
  

Beren: [after several attempts]  
    
I want Tinuviel to be happy.  
  

Namo:  
    
Being happy and getting what one asks for are not always the same thing. --What do you want for yourself?  
  
[pause -- Luthien looks wretched and afraid]  
  

Beren: [faintly]  
    
I want to stay with my wife.  
  
[she hugs him in relief]  
  

Namo: [grim]  
    
As you now are, young Man?  
  

Beren: [simply]  
    
I've known worse. This doesn't hurt.  
  
[silence]  
  

Namo: [to where Nienna has been up till now]  
    
I'm surprised you haven't jumped in yet -- where's she gotten to?  
  
[sighing -- to Beren:]  
  
You're not making things any easier.  
  

Beren: [a very faint smile]  
    
I usually don't.  
  

Namo: [snorts, sounding exasperated, but not angry]  
    
I'm not sure what to do. This is unprecedented, and nothing I can recall from the Song gives me any hints, let alone specific directions. I'm going to consult with my peers about this -- fortunately they're already somewhat aware of your circumstances, so it shouldn't take too long to bring them up to date. Meanwhile you two might as well--  
  

Huan: [interrupting]  
    
[loud single bark]  
  

Namo:  
    
\--three, might as well stay here as anywhere else. Then we won't waste any time trying to find you again.  
  
[to the Apprentice]  
  
You're sure you don't know where my sister might be?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes. Erm, no. That is, I'm sure I don't know where she is. I know many places where she might be.  
  
[the Lord of the Halls looks up at the ceiling]  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you do this on purpose, or does it come naturally? --Has she given you any tasks that you're supposed to be doing right now?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I don't know, my Lord. --I mean, I'm not sure why I do it. My Master only told me to make myself useful about the Halls.  
  

Namo:  
    
Good. --About the latter, not the first part of your statement. Go find my Lady, explain things to her -- quickly -- and ask her to meet me at the Mahanaxar. First, however, ask her what you should be doing and then go and do it. If nothing else, then I'll have you handle coordinating security -- that should help curb your taste for adventure, seeing how these stakeouts really go down.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Certainly, Sir. [he gives a rather extravagant bow, and strides jauntily out, though not without a backwards concerned look at the three shades. The Lord of the Halls picks up his cup from the other arm of his throne (where it was not a moment before) finishes the last of his tea and rises from his throne. Setting down the cup he vanishes, without another word. Beren reacts, starting.]  
  

Beren:  
    
What's gonna happen now?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I don't know. I -- I --  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
I'm going on nothing but instinct right now. I don't know why they all need to discuss it. And I have no idea what they'll decide.   
  
[Behind them Vaire appears for a moment, glances across at the trio with a sympathetic expression, and with a fond shake of her head dismisses the teacup sitting on her husband's chair. Another quick gesture dismisses the muddle of chairs and dims the light of the Loom to a faint glow. She disappears without them noticing her, with the possible exception of Huan. Beren sinks down onto his knees, closing his eyes. Luthien drops down in front of him]  
  

Luthien: [anxious]  
    
What's wrong -- Beren, love, what's the matter?  
  

Beren: [looking up at her, vaguely]  
    
I'm tired. --And I got chilled and couldn't get warm again.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Have they hurt you somehow?  
  

Beren: [slowly]  
    
No. Some people -- I'm not sure what kind of people they were. They weren't Elves, I'm pretty sure. They came, and . . . talked at me kind of loudly. They -- they weren't real happy with me being there in the entryway. But nobody did anything except talk. I -- wasn't listening to most of it anyway.  
  
[he reaches out his hand, and Huan bumps his head under it]  
  
He came along and started licking my face . . . and made me move and kind of curled up around me . . . and after that . . . I wasn't cold. He growled at them when they came by to yell at me, too, and after a while they stopped.  
  
[he smiles, rubbing Huan's ears]  
  
He's a good dog. Isn't that right, boy?   
  

Huan:  
    
[whines]  
  
[Luthien pulls Beren close against her side, and he leans his head on her shoulder. Huan moves to lie couchant behind them, right at their backs.]  
  

Luthien: [whispering]  
    
Shh, it's all right, don't be afraid -- we're here now, I won't let anything else happen to you. Just rest, you're safe, we've got you, we've got you . . .  
  

Beren: [not opening his eyes]  
    
Sounds good . . . to me . . .  
  
[she is weeping silently, but not letting him know it as she alternately smoothes his hair and rubs gently at his wrist. Across the room as she is trying to blink away the tears, the glow of the Loom attracts her attention, and she strains to make out what it is. At that moment the quiet of the hall is shattered beyond repair:]  
  

Tulkas: [shouting in the distance]  
    
Well of course it's unprecedented, everything's unprecedented, you know we're just making it up as we go along!  
  
[Following this proclamation the speaker himself appears, striding in out of nowhere to where the three are, much to the astonishment of the lovers. Huan does not leave where he is lying pressed up against Beren and Luthien, but he gives a short happy bark and thumps his tail on the floor]  
  

Tulkas: [shaking his head in disgust]  
    
They call me "simple" -- but not everything is this complicated. Some things are simple.  
  
[looks around and snorts in disgust]  
  
What is it with this obsessive need of Vaire's to tidy everything? How much work is it to leave a few chairs around?  
  
[manifests a heavy, carved chair of the royal fald-stool with arms and back type, flings self down in it. (Note: there are no obvious sfx -- no flashes, no "magical" sounds -- it's just there.) Manifesting a drinking horn:]  
  
You want anything? A drink? Say the word --  
  
[Beren, a bit wild-eyed, shakes his head; Luthien is marginally more composed.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Oh -- no thank you, my lord. We are quite -- adequate -- as we are --  
  

Tulkas: [to Beren]  
    
\--Good work with those little spiders. Too many to clean out, of course, but you made a nice dent in the population.  
  

Beren: [startled into blurting out a response]  
    
Little?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Should've seen their mother.  
  
[shakes his head sadly]  
  
I'll regret not catching her to the end of the world.  
  
[he takes another pull of his drink]  
  

Beren: [aside]  
    
So will the world.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
That's what I said.  
  
[Beren looks confused.]  
  
Now, mind you, I don't go in for all those fancy gadgets, myself -- I'm more the hands-on type -- but heh, even I can see why you wouldn't want to come to close quarters with those things. How come you never used a, a whatsit, poky-stick-thing -- you know, a "spear?" Seems a lot better than going after those things with a -- sword -- farther away, right? Why didn't you make yourself one?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um -- 'cause I'm not a smith?  
  
[Tulkas looks a bit confused at this]  
  
I didn't have the tools, or the time, and I wouldn't have known what to do with them if I did. And a spear can be damned inconvenient for hauling around in rough terrain -- anything taller than you is gonna catch on stuff. Plus there's the problem of if you throw it you haven't got it, but if you hang on to it, it can become a liability. Spears are best for open country and pitched battle. Otherwise--  
  
[it clicks, suddenly, and he looks horrified]  
  
Ah. Sir. --My lord. --Oh gods \-- help me--  
  
[Tulkas looks around]  
  

Tulkas:   
    
No one else here, unless you're counting Huan. "Otherwise--?" You were saying--?  
  

Beren: [quietly, rushed]  
    
Otherwise it can become just another thing to slow you down.  
  
[bowing his head]  
  
Sir.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Oh yeah. I'm with you there.  
  
[getting louder]  
  
I mean, it's all just a way of hitting harder in one place than another. I don't know why other people go on about weapons as if they're so much better than brute force, especially the more moving parts they have. They're not any easier. All this business about "it's so easy, you just pull it and the bow does the work for you," and nothing about how it wants to go in all different directions, including back into you and along your arm--!  
  

Beren: [startled into forgetting]  
    
Somebody said archery was easy? I would never agree with that.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
But you were really good at it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but I started practicing when I was what, four? five? and I kept practicing, and I twanged myself good more'n a few times there -- first time I tried fooling around with a full-size bow I gave myself a bloody nose, and my first recurved hunting job -- ouch. --Of course I shouldn't have been too impatient to put on a vambrace before testing it. But yeah, anything that can punch through an elk, or a warg, or an armored Orc, before it can get close enough to damage you, is going to have a hell of a lot of power and need extreme control to make that power go where you need it to, and only there.  
  
[he stops, and starts to panic again -- Tulkas does not seem to notice, but Luthien hugs him]  
  

Tulkas: [smiling triumphantly]  
    
I'm going to have you tell my brother-in-law this. Someone needs to take him down a notch. Besides, you understand when brute force is the right thing -- that bit with Feanor's brat, when he grabbed her? On the horse? -- No hesitation, no stopping-to-think-it-over -- exactly what I would have done. Perfect.  
  
[gestures with his horn towards Beren and drinks a toast]  
  
Of course, I helped a bit. You've always tended to be a little too thoughtful and cautious -- except towards the end there -- and sometimes you just need to act without distractions. Not the time and place for it  
  

Beren:  
    
Y--you're Tulkas, right--?  
  

Tulkas: [shrugs]  
    
Last time I checked. I think that's what they're still calling me.  
  

Beren:  
    
Ah . . . okay. So -- when I pulled Curufin down, that was really you? Your power working through me? I should thank you for saving Luthien then?  
  

Tulkas: [shaking his head]  
    
Oh no, I just helped with the distractions. It was all you. Besides, you already did. I'm one of the Valar, right? Don't you remember thanking us?  
  

Beren:  
    
. . .  
  

Luthien:  
    
How do you know all this -- milord?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Oh, I was following the story off and on from a long ways back -- even before what's-his-name, the guy who didn't come back -- Thingol -- got my attention begging me to smite him couple-three times a day. Nia said this was one I'd li--  
  

Luthien: [interrupting, outraged]  
    
You didn't!  
  

Tulkas:  
    
\--Of course not. That's not how it works, anyway, and your dad knows it.  
  
[snorts]  
  
Besides, I didn't need to.  
  
[glares at Beren]  
  
What were you thinking, you dimwit? You had every chance handed to you to go off and have a decent life with your girl and what do you do, you go and yourself killed, for a bargain which nobody in his right mind would have considered taking up -- can we say "rigged contest," hm? -- and you can't claim it was an accident, how often did you try to get yourself killed before you succeeded? Every time she said "Let's just go and live in the woods," would it have, huh, killed you to say "yes"? Obviously not. Believe me, I wanted to clobber you a couple times there.  
  
[the disgruntled Power recovers from his rant with another drink]  
  

Beren: [quiet]  
    
I'm sorry, if that helps any.  
  

Tulkas: [looks around expectantly, then shakes his head]  
    
\--Nope, nothing's changed. So I don't think it did.  
  
[Beren looks even more baffled.]  
  
Well. What are you going to do now?  
  

Beren:  
    
Do?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Right, what are you going to do about this situation you got yourselves into?  
  

Beren:  
    
. . .  
  

Luthien:  
    
I got us into it too. But at this point it isn't up to us. What can we do?  
  
[pause]  
  
That is to say, we're dead.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
I know that. How much of a simpleton do you take me for? There's always something you can do. It might not work, but at least--   
  
[There is a sudden gust of wind through the place and a tall, athletic woman (who might well be played by Maureen O'Sullivan, the original "Jane") in swirling but rather abbreviated drapery appears behind Tulkas, and puts her hands over his eyes, exclaiming:]  
  
Guess who!  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Hmm . . . I think . . . but no, can't be sure--  
  

Nessa:  
    
Silly!  
  
[She leans over and gives him a quick upside-down kiss]  
  
Sure now?  
  

Tulkas: [frowns, shakes his head]  
    
Not quite.  
  
[they share a rather-more-protracted moment]   
  
I think \-- but . . .  
  
[he ducks before she can thwack him on the head, grinning]  
  

Nessa: [moving around beside him]  
    
Where did all the chairs go?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
You know Vaire -- leave something alone for a moment, it gets cleaned up and put away. Here, sit on my lap, we only need one chair anyway.  
  
[Nessa plunks herself down on his knees, grabs the mead-horn and takes a big gulp before passing it back and leaning against his shoulder.]  
  
So what's going on? Anything interesting?   
  

Nessa: [scornful expression]  
    
Pfft. Talk, talk, talk, "Rules" -- talk, talk, talk, "mortal" -- talk, talk,--  
  

Tulkas: [interrupting]  
    
Who's saying what?  
  

Nessa:  
    
\--You know how it goes. Somebody says one thing, someone else says another, and after it wrangles around for a while the first person's saying what the third said and the third and second are disagreeing with themselves and everyone else is just shaking their heads.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
You left out shouting.  
  

Nessa:  
    
You didn't let me get there --  
  
[pokes him in the ribs]  
  
\--talk, talk, talk, "War," -- talk, talk, talk, "Melian" -- shouting: "That scoundrel who seduced my finest employee and convinced her to throw away her career and become a housewife--"  
  

Tulkas:  
    
\--That's got to be Irmo--  
  

Nessa: [nods]  
    
\--More shouting. Back again to "mortal -- Rules -- War." It's soooo boring. --This chair is not big enough for the two of us.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
That's because you insist on trying to sit sideways.  
  

Nessa:  
    
Well, how else can you feed me grapes? If I face forward, you stick them in my eye.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
We don't have any grapes, silly.  
  

Nessa:  
    
Well, get some!  
  
[Beren gives Luthien a cautious Look; she only raises her eyebrows in answer. This is not what she expected either.]  
  
Never mind, I'll fetch them.  
  
[Nessa holds out her hand and manifests a large cluster, pulls off one and pops it in her husband's mouth before giving him the rest of the bunch. Tulkas looks at both occupied hands, shakes his head and sets the drinking horn down on the floor, on feet which might not have been there a moment before. He starts feeding her grapes while she crosses her feet on one arm of the chair and leans back on the other. Tulkas starts teasing her, holding them just a little too high, and Nessa tickles him in return. This was not such a good idea, as in the resulting upheaval the chair really proves to be too small and she falls halfway onto the floor out of his lap. Huan has to get up and come over and "help" at this point with excited noises and nose-pokings]  
  

Nessa:  
    
Huan, get away! This is stupid\--  
  
[she glares at the arm of the chair and gives it a whack with her hand]  
  
I'm going to fix this, just wait a moment--   
  
[There are no obvious sfx at this point, either audio or visual enhancement, just as with the previous manifestations]  
  

Beren: [whispering to Luthien]  
    
Were they talking about your parents\--?  
  

Luthien: [almost incapable of speech]   
    
I -- I'm -- I think so--  
  

Beren:  
    
Did you get that -- that -- bit, about -- being angry at --  
  
[breaks off, astounded -- loudly:]  
  
\--That's a hill. A real hill, from outside -- at least it looks real--  
  

Nessa: [beaming]  
    
Thank you!  
  
[instead of a heavy fald-stool with arms, the divine couple are now sitting on a grassy hillock with some shrubs growing on it, allowing for much easier reclining. It is a fairly decent-sized prominence, not inconspicuous at all. ]  
  
Would you like one too? We have plenty around our hall -- I can get another, no problem.  
  

Beren: [rushed]  
    
Uh -- thank you very much, my lady, but I really don't want to put anyone to any trouble on my behalf.  
  

Nessa: [between grapes]  
    
Well, I don't think you're obnoxious at all. That was very polite.  
  

Luthien: [temper starting to flare]  
    
Who's saying Beren's obnoxious?  
  

Nessa: [shrugs]  
    
Different people. My brother, like he's got room to talk. People with no senses of humor. Or romance.  
  
[to Tulkas]  
  
My turn.  
  
[she sits up and takes the fruit and they switch places. To Luthien:]  
  
I was so pleased with the way you used my Art to put old Melkor in his place--  
  

Tulkas: [chuckles]  
    
Heh. That's one way of putting it.  
  

Nessa:  
    
What?!?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
You were shaking me and screaming and whacking Tav on the arm and yelling "See? See? Don't you ever call Dance a frivolous waste of time again!" until everyone told you to sit down and be quiet.  
  

Nessa:  
    
I didn't hear that.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
That's 'cause you were shouting.  
  

Nessa:  
    
Pfft.  
  
[she silences him with another grape]  
  
You want to talk about obnoxious? He -- Melkor -- used to swagger about like he was Eru's gift to Valier -- and no idea how to win friends, much less hearts. No understanding of what conversation meant. He honestly thought that we wanted to hear him talk about himself.   
  

Luthien: [defensive]  
    
Well, if someone's interesting, that's all right.  
  

Nessa:  
    
You met him. Did he have anything the least bit interesting to say? The "art of conversation" involves an exchange of ideas, right? He couldn't ever grasp that there's this basic difference between a conversation and a monologue. Do you know how annoying it is to have someone just ignore everything you say to them?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well, up until recently I'd have had to say -- no, but--  
  

Beren: [muttering]  
    
I'm sorry--  
  

Luthien:  
    
I wasn't talking about you, I was referring to Celegorm. And my father. You listened, you just disagreed with me.  
  

Beren: [gloomy]  
    
I was right, though--  
  

Luthien: [sharply]  
    
No, you were not. If you had listened to me from the very beginning, milord, you would not have lost your hand, and you wouldn't be incapacitated in a fight, and you wouldn't have gotten yourself killed. Am I not right? Beren? Am I not right about that? Even the gods think so, weren't you listening--  
  

Beren: [louder]  
    
But it wouldn't have worked then either--   
  

Nessa: [loudly as if shooing a cat, dropping the grapes and clapping her hands]  
    
Wssht!  
  
[they jump -- the Patrons of Spouses look at them very seriously and severely]  
  
What are you fighting about?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Sounds like you're fighting over something that's already over.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Er . . .  
  

Nessa:  
    
Why?  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh -- I guess because -- I've been doing it so long --  
  

Luthien: [firmly]  
    
We've been doing it--  
  

Beren:  
    
\--we \-- just don't know how to stop.  
  

Nessa:  
    
That's not a good enough reason. Is it?  
  
[they shake their heads meekly. Huan thumps his tail and gives a sympathy whine]  
  
\--Where were we?  
  

Tulkas: [helpfully]  
    
Talking about my ex-rival. Whose head I am someday going to pound flush level with his neck.  
  

Nessa:  
    
That's right.  
  
[gives him another grape -- to Luthien:]  
  
I'm betting all he said was, "Nobody appreciates me, I don't get the respect I deserve, everyone else is having such a great time, poor me, --you watch, they'll all be sorry someday" -- am I not right?  
  

Luthien: [deadpan]  
    
That was pretty much all, except that you left out the bit about, "Get down here or I'll shoot you down with a lightning bolt."  
  

Tulkas: [flat]  
    
Oh, how nice. He's got a new hobby. Indoor target practice. Joy.  
  

Nessa:  
    
No, he used to do that.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Not indoors.  
  

Nessa:  
    
Well, how would we know what he was doing all that time in Utumno? --This is a silly argument. Let's stop.  
  

Tulkas: [amiably]  
    
All right.  
  

Nessa: [gesturing towards Beren with her arm]  
    
Did you ever get a proper Acclamation? Did your family ever acknowledge him as your consort?  
  

Luthien: [a bit dry]  
    
Haven't you been watching us all along?   
  

Nessa:  
    
No, I had work to do right around then. Summer, you know.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well.  
  
[she sighs]  
  
They did give us a feast and all, but I'm not sure that I would call it a proper celebration. It wasn't very celebratory, you see, what with Carcaroth on the loose and so many people having been killed by his rampages and everyone all packed into the Caves for safety and the whole place completely disorganized as a result. No one was very cheerful, to put it mildly. Poor Mablung looked like a ghost -- he shouldn't even have been up yet, but trying to make him or Beleg stop for their own good is like telling Beren to take care of himself --  
  
[Beren looks away, embarrassed]  
  
\--and my mother didn't look much better, and Dad was trying so hard to be polite and not say anything distressing, but there really aren't a whole lot of conversation topics left that don't end up somewhere unpleasant, and how much can you say about the weather? And Beren was so nervous -- and so was I -- and we weren't used to sitting at table -- out in the woods by the campfire I'd cut things and hold them for him, but our timing was all off and we kept knocking everything over. And then everyone pretended they didn't notice, and that was even worse. Beren was almost in tears, and I was trying not to get angry, and it wasn't working very well . . .  
  

Nessa:  
    
Oh, you poor kids!  
  

Luthien:  
    
. . . and we were both so exhausted and frayed that trying to be social was, frankly, a waste of time, and then there was all this fuss with Mom over whether we should have my old rooms, or the best guest suite instead, and since every available chamber was full of refugees who would have to be shuffled around, I thought it was irrelevant, especially given our living conditions for the past year, and they didn't understand that it was a joke when I said "Just give me a sword and I'll make a lean-to of branches like I usually do," and so I got lectured about The Dangers of Carcaroth! as though I were an idiot, and then I said, "Well, is my house still up in Hirilorn?" and that killed conversation completely for a bit.  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
And then Mom wanted to give me their room, and neither one of us wanted that, and Beren tried to help by suggesting that we could sleep on the floor in one of the storage caves, and they thought that was Not Funny either, and then they realized that it wasn't supposed to be a joke, and things got touchy again for a little while, and then we had another round of mutual apologizing.  
  

Nessa:  
    
So what did you end up doing?  
  

Luthien: [completely unable to stop now that she's started talking about it]  
    
Hirilorn, actually. No one else was staying there, no way up it for Carcaroth -- and the army stationed all around the gates of Menegroth below -- and ultimately everyone agreed it was the best solution. Not perfect, mind you -- I had to guard Beren up the ladder like you do with small children to the house door, and then he got upset all over again about how high up it was -- he'd only seen the tree once at sunset and it was a lot more impressive actually being in it -- because of me climbing down from it, and then we fought about me sleeping on the floor with him because my bed was too small for us both and he was being all self-sacrificing again and I had to cry before he'd stop it, and then we fought about him going on the Hunt the next day, because he insisted that it ` really was his fault about Carcaroth and besides Mablung was going in spite of his injuries, and we were both feeling so Doomed that I couldn't tell if it was a real perception or not, and I tried to make a joke about this being familiar, up in the moonlight with sentries down on the lawn and he got upset again about the fact that I had to rappel down, and about the fact that they were in the Pit then . . .  
  
[she stops, taking a ragged breath; Beren is profoundly mortified -- Tulkas gives him a sympathetic look]  
  

Tulkas: [pointing at the drinking horn on the floor]  
    
Sure you don't want some mead? You look like you could use a drink.  
  

Beren:  
    
No thanks -- but it sounds like a better idea all the time.  
  

Luthien: [forlornly]  
    
. . . and I almost wished that they'd just drunk us a toast, broken a loaf, handed us some blankets and said "there's an empty corner behind those shelves over there," just bread -- wine -- bed, instead of even trying to make a fuss . . . It wasn't just the awfulness at dinner, the rest of the celebration wasn't any good either -- there wasn't any of the traditional singing, because it wouldn't have been appropriate with all the mourning, and everyone was so awkward about congratulating us . . . and about actually looking me in the eye, and not staring at Beren. As a wedding -- it was pretty awful, really. And then he got killed--   
  
[she stops abruptly]  
  

Nessa: [outraged]  
    
That's not right! You deserved better than that!  
  

Luthien: [shrugs]  
    
Well, -- yes. But under the circumstances--  
  

Nessa: [interrupting]  
    
That doesn't matter. That's just no good at all. --You know Morgoth ruined our honeymoon, too.  
  

Luthien: [blinking suspiciously hard -- politely:]  
    
\--Really?  
  

Nessa:  
    
The party was wonderful. Which just made everything after so much more awful as well. It's worse when good memories get spoiled by some disaster.  
  

Luthien:  
    
What happened? I remember Mom saying something about that was why you all moved out of Middle-earth -- something about volcanic eruptions or something -- she wasn't very clear, and I was a little kid being fished out from under the loom.  
  

Nessa:  
    
He used our wedding as cover to sneak his army of fiends in from Without and start entrenching up north and by the time we realized he was causing the pollution and the mutations, that it wasn't something we'd done wrong, he had already tunneled under the Lamps.  
  

Tulkas: [bitterly]  
    
I shouldn't have gone off-duty.  
  

Nessa:  
    
No darling, it was my fault for distracting you. You couldn't have known about the double-agents -- not even Manwe did, then, so why shouldn't you have had the night off?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Honey, don't you dare blame yourself. Just as much my fault for daring you to try to wear me out--  
  

Nessa: [mischievously]  
    
No one can keep up with me. I bet I could do it again tonight . . .  
  

Tulkas: [interested]  
    
What stakes?  
  

Nessa:  
    
A beach holiday on Tol Eressea. Moonlight on the ocean, dolphins playing, and the water right there when we get sandy. --What are you betting?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
A mountain-climbing vacation.  
  
[leadingly]  
  
    
\--Sunrise over the Pelori, bonfires under the stars at the edge of the world, and that bracing mountain air means we'll have to keep warm somehow. The deer will like it too, we won't have to ask anyone to watch them while we're away.  
  

Nessa:  
Ooh, you're cheating!  
  
[she pokes him in the ribs. He sits up and tries to catch her hand, giving her kisses, while she keeps on trying to tickle him.]  
  

Beren: [to himself]  
    
They looked a lot more staid on Gran's tapestries . . .  
  
[Luthien gives a speculative look at the Powers and then at him]  
  

Luthien:  
    
If you hadn't gone and gotten yourself killed, we could have had that in Middle-earth, too. They've been married for thousands of years and somehow they manage not to fight most of the time.  
  
[Beren winces. Unnoticed except by Huan, who pricks up his ears, Aule's Assistant appears in the middle of the hall. He does a double-take at the sight of the hill and its occupants, before giving a disgusted snort at the sight of the amorous deities.]  
  

Aule's Assistant: [clearing his throat]  
    
If you can manage to divert your attention from this unseemly spectacle, and grant this humble messenger a modicum of the same?  
  
[they all turn and stare at him]  
  

Tulkas: [looking around the room]  
    
Unseemliness? We can't have that. --Where?  
  
[the Assistant shakes his head. Nessa throws a grape at him; he ignores it with studied decorousness]  
  

Assistant: [to Luthien]  
    
The Powers have requested -- in the absence or preoccupation of the regular staff -- that I provide you with escort to the chamber in these Halls where they will hold their deliberations so that you may address them, and account for your actions.  
  
[silence. Beren and Luthien, looking nervous, start to get up]  
  

Luthien: [to Beren]  
    
If you find yourself getting panicked again, leave the talking to me this time.  
  

Assistant: [quickly]  
    
The presence of your -- consort -- is not required.  
  

Luthien:  
    
What do you mean?  
  

Assistant:  
    
I mean, plainly put, that the mortal is not to attend this meeting.   
  

Luthien:  
    
Well, then, -- I'm not going either. Why can't he?  
  

Assistant:  
    
To your first word, this is not "attendance optional," to your second -- in plainest speech -- because he does not belong here in the first place, nor with you, who are of a different kind, nor is your reasoning made clearer by his company.  
  

Luthien: [tearful frustration]  
    
Why is everyone out to get us? We're not hurting anyone, we didn't ask for very much -- we just want to be together. --What is the problem? Why does everyone in the world have to make such a fuss about us? What do the gods care about me, about Beren, when they have all of Arda to worry about? What difference do we make?  
  
[pause]  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Well, you did come and insist rather loudly that Namo pay attention to you. --Not trying to be mean, just pointing out a fact.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But why can't you just fix things?  
  

Tulkas:  
    
How?  
  

Luthien: [acerbic]  
    
You're the gods, you're supposed to be all powerful.  
  

Nessa: [patiently]  
    
Now, little sister, I'm sure Melian taught you better than that.  
  

Luthien: [still stubborn]  
    
You still haven't explained why such a fuss is being made.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
You've thrown everyone off by doing something completely unprecedented. People don't just show up here without being called for, you know.  
  

Nessa: [thoughtful]  
    
Well, there was that other time which is sort of the same thing--  
  

Tulkas: [scowling]  
    
Yes, but that's not a good precedent. And it isn't really the same at all. They're not like them -- and a jolly good thing, too!  
  

Nessa:  
    
True.  
  
[to Luthien]  
  
You should really do something with your hair, you look like a poor sheep they've forgotten to shear.  
  
[Luthien, looking intensely piqued, starts to say something -- and Beren laughs]  
  
It looks so nice when you braid flowers in it.  
  

Luthien: [to Beren, who has turned it into a cough]  
    
What, sir?!  
  

Beren: [complete innocence]  
    
Oh absolutely, I agree -- about the flowers.  
  
[she gives him a narrow Look; he takes a lock of her hair in his fingers]  
  
You just don't get a break, do you? --It's okay, it's okay, this is just a little thing--  
  
[he tugs her closer until their foreheads touch; whispering:]  
  
You still don't look as much of a sheepdog as me\--  
  
[they kiss]  
  

Tulkas: [approving]  
    
Much better.   
  
[embarrassed, they straighten back up]  
  

Assistant: [clearing his throat]  
    
\--Could we please stop wasting time, young Lady?  
  

Luthien: [same tone back]  
    
That is Princess, to you, sir. And we are not wasting anyone's time, but quite the reverse.  
  

Nessa: [to her husband]  
    
Oh, I've got a plan. A good plan! Listen--  
  
[She grabs his head and whispers into his ear.]  
  
Let's go find her, all right?  
  

Tulkas: [frowning]  
    
You really think that will help?  
  

Nessa:  
    
I'm sure. --Oh, I want to stop by the house first and pick up the deer.  
  

Tulkas:  
    
Are they part of the plan?  
  

Nessa:  
    
No, silly, it's just more fun when they're around. Race you back to the hall!  
  
[Vanishes. Tulkas vanishes a split-second later. The Hill is left behind]  
  

Assistant: [shaking his head]  
    
\--Well, don't expect to see them any time soon.  
  
[to Luthien, not really a question]  
  
Your Highness, are you coming or not?  
  

Luthien: [folding her arms]  
    
I told you, I'm not going anywhere without Beren.  
  
[deliberately]  
  
You tell them -- If he is not welcome, I'm not welcome  
  

Beren: [unhappy]  
    
\--Tinuviel -- maybe--  
  

Luthien:  
    
No. If they're going to make this big deal about me being Mom's daughter and "isn't it wonderful" to meet me and isn't it so awful what happened, they can treat you with the respect due you as my consort. Otherwise it's just the same as Doriath.  
  
[The Assistant gives her a disgruntled glare; she gives it right back to him]  
  

Assistant:  
    
I will speak to my Patrons about this, Elf.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Good. You do that.  
  
[after a brief staring contest Aule's messenger vanishes, not before saying, in a last-word-power-play manner:]  
  

Assistant:  
    
Don't touch anything while you're waiting. --Especially the Loom.  
  
[silence -- particularly deafening after the last visitors; the couple look at each other, recovering from the overwhelming personalities and onslaught of information they've just experienced.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Yeah.  
  
[pause]  
  
Not -- not quite what you expected either, huh?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I think -- my parents -- left a lot out.  
  
[pulling herself together]  
  
Now I'm wondering what else they neglected to mention or somehow failed to convey quite vividly enough. --So what were you expecting?  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't know. Not this.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I mean -- I don't know, I just -- my folks raised me to be godsfearing and pious, I learned my myths, and how you don't reap all the field, you leave some for the deer in winter because Yavanna is patron of wild animals, not just farmers, and you don't ever shoot swans because they're sacred to Ulmo, and if you wear down a knife or a needle where it can't be sharpened any more you don't throw it away in the trash, you bury it out of respect for Aule, and you thank Manwe when the weather holds good for harvest --  
  
[short dismayed laugh]  
  
\--that was all just -- everyday stuff -- just life, but not -- there, like the War. The stories -- they were like tapestries, bright colors, and detailed, and interesting, but background, not -- real \-- the way stories about our history were real, people if you didn't know, at least you knew people who had known someone who had known them.  
  
[sighs]  
  
And then everything fell apart, and -- what was normal and what wasn't -- by the end nothing human was real to me, and I swear I could understand what the streams were saying, but since it wasn't in words I couldn't ever say what it was -- and then -- you \--  
  
[she smiles sadly at him]  
  
and afterwards . . .  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
. . . he'd say things, or they would, and I literally couldn't make anything of it . . . I hear words like "and so I asked Varda," and -- my mind just stops, like a pony balking -- I can't make any pictures to go along with the words. I just had no idea really what to expect . . . being mortal, especially . . .  
  
[with a touch of resentment]  
  
\--but I did think it was going to be peaceful at least.  
  

Luthien: [slowly]  
    
It's different for me, obviously -- more like your old family stories about Hithlum, friends of my parents and places that I've never met or seen but had always felt familiar towards, because of the way they talked about them. But it's still quite different from the way I'd imagined it, from their stories . . .  
  
[glancing up at the glowing vaults with a thoughtful frown]   
  
So that is the Loom. That answers one question, at least. I wonder . . .  
  
[she gets up and tugs him over towards it, despite his reluctance]  
  

Beren: [worried]  
    
Tinuviel, he just said--  
  

Luthien:  
    
All he said was don't touch it. I'm just looking, Beren.  
  
[it's clear that's not going to be the case for very long]  
  
Oh, interesting. I can see now why they call it a "loom." I think -- look at that, there actually are several, um, heddles, I suppose you have to call them -- see?   
  

Beren:  
    
No.  
  

Luthien:  
    
More than several, really. They just keep on going, all the way back in, I don't see how they all fit. And that's got to be the take-up -- again, I don't understand how all of them can be in there--   
  
[she leans in and starts trying to measure spaces]  
  

Beren:  
    
Er--  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--because there's got to be one for each "heddle", but it looks to me like you could unwind the, ah, cloth, and thread it over these bits, if you--  
  
[without her actually touching anything, some part of the construct moves and there is a dramatic, if brief, change in the intensity, texture, and color of the lights]  
  
Oh! --Did you see that? You did see that, right? I don't know exactly what it was, but there was definitely something there-- Now if I do this \-- or this instead--  
  

Beren: [trying to pull her away]  
    
I don't think we're supposed to be doing this . . .  
  

Luthien:  
    
And that has stopped you when?  
  

Beren:  
    
. . .  
  
[she keeps poking around, while he alternates between expressions of dread and resignation. Thus neither of them see when Huan re-enters, carefully leading Finrod Felagund by the sleeve, who is a little bemused but otherwise calm and unflustered.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Huan, I don't think we're supposed to be back here. I know it's a madhouse right now and no one seems to be around to give any answers, and I haven't been able to find anyone to send down to Orome about you, but don't you think we should look for someone to come explain what's going on . . . and . . .  
  
[stops]  
  
I -- think we've found them. Somehow -- I'm not surprised. Aside from being shocked beyond words. Beren? -- and Luthien? -- how --  
  
[He hastens over to the two of them, who have turned around with a start and are standing frozen in front of the Loom]   
  
How . . .?  
  
[Beren, speechless, falls on his knees before him, Luthien kneeling with him. Finrod at once kneels too, taking their free hands in his own -- or attempting to.]  
  

Finrod: [in extreme distress]  
    
Beren, what's happened?  
  

Beren: [roughly, not looking up]  
    
I've failed you again, sir.  
  

Huan:  
    
[barks sharply]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Last I knew you were safe and living happily together. What happened to you -- three?  
  

Beren:  
    
Carcaroth.  
  

Finrod:  
    
What's Carcaroth?  
  

Huan:  
    
[growls]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Morgoth's anti-Huan defense system. But I knocked him out and we got in anyway, but then Morgoth saw through my ruse and recognized me.  
  

Finrod: [aghast]  
    
Ah -- you were killed by Morgoth?  
  

Luthien:  
    
No! We got it. But then Carcaroth got it. And Beren's hand. And then the Eagles came and got us. And Huan and I took care of Beren. And then we went home, but Carcaroth had already gotten there and into Doriath because of the Silmaril but I'm not sure if it might not have been because of Beren's hand, either, and they went to hunt him and he almost got my father but Beren got in the way -- and here we are.  
  

Finrod: [stunned]  
    
You -- got -- a Silmaril. --Yourselves.  
  

Beren: [hoarse]  
    
And then I lost it.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You two -- went into Angband and took one of the jewels away. By yourselves.  
  

Luthien:  
    
With Huan's help.  
  

Finrod: [horrified, touching Beren's wrist ]  
    
Is that what happened to you?  
  

Beren:  
    
No. That was Carcaroth.  



	6. Act IV - Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Beloved Fool: Beyond the Western Sea**   


* * *

  
And now we come to the closure and the summation of the whole bizarre project, the resolution that made all the preceding continuations possible,  
because I couldn't figure out a way to make it work at first until I realized that I could tell it in retrospect and completely change the tone and focus without it being inappropriate (at least in theory.) Some readers have  
understood the subtitle, and have been horrified at the prospect, to which the only answer I have been able to make is, "Yeah, me too."

 

There are a few brief remarks that need to be made at the outset. First of all, there are a few devices in the technical sense that allow  
this to work, which are not strictly canonical. The dedication at the opening, to Lucian and TSE, is not thrown in for looks. In fact, those who know  
those authors well might feel some trepidation at those lines as much as at the "disclaimer" that follows them. Eliot invited the Furies home to dinner after a disastrous vacation cruise in _The Family Reunion_ , and Lucian needs to be more widely read throughout the science fiction and fantasy world for having gone far above and beyond in his pursuit of mythological accuracy, visiting Hades to interview Charon and his passengers, ascending to Olympus to interview Zeus himself, and sailing beyond the Gates of Hercules to find Homer himself on the Blessed Isles and ask him that that burning question in an attempt to solve the great literary controversy  
— what deep meaning was there in the opening lines of the _Iliad_ ,  
"Sing, goddess &c"—?

 

As Homer, in the _True History_ of Lucian's impossible journey, replies over a glass of nectar, that it just happened to pop into his head,  
you can gather that his take on the myths in these metafics is somewhat less than ponderous. Riddled with bad puns and biting social commentary, you do not want to read _Dialogues with the Dead_ or _Dialogues with the Gods_ while eating or drinking anything. And _Fishers_ , where the great Philosophers are given a travel-pass by Hades so that they can come up from the Underworld and beat Lucian up for parodying them in his _Auction_ skit, is both hilarious and a great consolation to any student afflicted by academic pomposity.

 

What has all this to do with Arda? Well, aside from Lucian being practically the patron saint of fanfiction, there's a more than good chance that Tolkien was familiar with his work, being after all a classicist. In fact, it's quite possible that C. S. Lewis who makes use of one of Lucian's devices  
and refers to him in _The Great Divorce,_ was introduced to his work by JRRT. And the alternation of flippancy and earnestness is very similar  
to the tone of _Farmer Giles of Ham,_ or the dry asides and comments  
on the foibles of Shire-folk. But it is not mere mockery, his parodying,  
because it provides not only a refreshingly unponderous take on the classical  
myths, but also in doing so provides insights into those very legends and  
distant figures. —What would it have been like to be Hera, coping with  
having Ganymede around the palace, or Paris, being bribed by three Immortals  
to fix the judging of a beauty pageant, or the Gatekeeper of the Underworld,  
dealing day after day with clueless arrivals who haven't yet realized that  
being a famous sports hero Upstairs doesn't mean anything now?

 

In his interview with Zeus, Lucian notices a complicated amplification  
system built into the King of the Gods' study, which proves to be a sort  
of prayer-filter, through which the petitions of mortals can come to his  
attention. This, and the subsequent discussion of which pleas are answered,  
and how, has its reflection in my own device of the Loom. As a device,  
it serves a more important purpose than merely being a humorous modernism  
— it allows for information to be conveyed in the context of the story  
both plausibly and without endless expository dialogues, making it possible  
to get to what (I think) are the more important problems. Other solutions  
throughout (no specifics for spoiler reasons) which may seem no less dubious,  
are also borrowed from Lucian , but can at least be justified if not proven.  
(Surely you didn't think the Norns wove with ordinary wool? nor even a  
rayon-silk blend.)

 

But the most important things (and many of the minor ones as well) can  
all be backed up with HOME textual citations — even some of the more surprising  
ones. (All of which will be marked in these Notes as appropriate.)

 

You may also have noticed that there is an homage to old movies, of  
which I am a long-time fan, in the noir setting, and the casting of the  
Powers. As always, I cast by voice and presence — performers who  
have and thus can convey the necessary ranges of strength and nuance, not  
merely pretty faces; though again, as always, these are merely my own choices,  
and as with any play other casts might be assembled. Obviously this  
episode is impossible to stage — though if it weren't, this is where the  
special-effects budget would go — and so can only exist in the interface  
between "this glassy square" and the readers' imagination. But if it were  
to be done (and likewise the entire Script) ideally it would be animated  
by a collaboration of the greatest animators, (personally I favor Matsumoto  
and Miyazaki) working under the direction of, yes, a Disney artist — the  
late, incomparable Kay Nielsen.

 

It's true: the renowned illustrator — and set designer! — was for a  
time employed at Disney's studios, though the only surviving work of his  
which actually made it to the screen was the very brief scene at the end  
of _Fantasia_ , where candlebearers process into a cathedral to the  
"Ave Maria" a sequence which instantly made me think of Nielsen when  
I first saw it, without knowing he was actually responsible for it. He  
had, however, been working on sketches for a "Ride of the Valkyries" sequence  
— and a _Little Mermaid_ feature length film which would not in any  
way have resembled the one which was eventually released. Alas, they didn't  
happen. But we can imagine what might have been, and since Nielsen was  
responsible for popularizing "East of the Sun, West of the Moon," I'd like  
to have him helm this production too. (Coincidentally, the famous "Sorcerer's  
Apprentice" sequence in _Fantasia_ is taken from an episode in one  
of Lucian's narratives, brooms and all.)

 

Finally, — does it work? It may prove to be an impossibility which should  
not have been attempted. this endeavor to steer between the Scylla of mawkishness  
and the Charybdis of buffoonery, whilst evading the Clashing Rocks of Canonicity  
and Artistic License. Nevertheless — _Excelsior!_

 

Oh, and the title? It comes from Lúthien's own description of  
Beren, to his face, in a moment of extreme exasperation — the point at  
which he is just about to set off on his own to infiltrate Angband, when  
she and Huan have finally caught up to him. That passage, from Canto XI  
of the first _Lay of Leithian_ fragment, is  key — to understanding  
not only Lúthien's character, and not only the Lay itself, but also  
the entire Arda mythos. And I don't think I'm exaggerating.  


* * *

  
**Scene I.**

 

"this glassy square" — Gower's speech recalls the intrusive reminder  
of the physical setting of the play during the narration of _Henry V,  
_ in  
which the theatre is called "this wooden O" and the audience requested  
to imagine the fleets of sea-going ships, the cannons being loaded,  
the horses and royal panoply of war which 16th-century special effects  
units couldn't provide — which, by making such an acknowledgment, that  
this is only a play, and a mere homage to events, and nothing really  
like, allows the process of suspending disbelief to proceed with an untroubled  
subconscious.  


* * *

  
"Ainulindalë" and "Valaquenta," in the vernacular: I make  
no real apology for the informality and down-to-earth characterization  
of the Valar, jarring though it undoubtedly is. After all, the formality  
and reverential tone in which their doings are recorded is a necessary  
aspect of celestials' doings being apprehended by younger, more limited  
beings — but that doesn't mean that that is how they appear to themselves.  
On the contrary: the glimpses we get of them "up close and personal" together  
with remarks like that in Ainulindalë to the effect that it's useless  
going to Tulkas for advice, since he's preoccupied by the present  
and doesn't take the long-range view at all, suggest a lively and somewhat  
uninhibited bunch, far from stodgy, who don't necessarily behave in the  
way that younger races would consider appropriate for deities.

 

It isn't just that their own original language, invented for use in  
a material dimensions, was considered harsh and "like the glitter of swords"  
by the Elves of Aman, who endlessly refined theirs to make it more melodious.  
After all, the one Power we get to know quite well in Tolkien's  
writings is pushy, impatient, sarcastic, appreciative of good food — and  
drink! — and lamentably given to practical jokes, like leaving "Burglar  
for hire" signs on the doors of unsuspecting homeowners, or making terrifying  
pyrotechnic special-effects to shake up a tipsy bunch of partygoing townsfolk…  


* * *

  
The reference to the Eagle is a dual one — yet I think the secondary  
reference must have been intended by the author as well, and not really  
original to me. In the original texts from which the published _Silmarillion_  
narrative of the Geste was harmonized _,_ it is mentioned ( _HOME:Lost  
Road _& _Shaping)_ that there were stories that she came alive  
to Mandos, either by crossing the Ice alone, herself, westwards (!) or  
that her mother had summoned one of the Eagles to carry her while she was  
dying over the Sea in a belated gesture of unselfishness, in the hopes  
that her daughter might be saved there; however these possibilities were  
discounted as unlikely even by the tellers, and the most probable that  
Lúthien in fact actually died, "fading" in the words of the various  
versions, out of grief, and went to Mandos in the usual manner, "down those  
dark ways that all must tread alone." _(LT2,_ "The Tale of Tinúviel")

 

The reference to her travelling west via Eagle, however, is oddly reminiscent  
of another particular class of European folk-tales, most famously represented  
by "East of the Sun, West of the Moon," with which Tolkien was of course  
quite familiar. One of the sequences in this variant of the "Mastermaid"  
stories is the heroine's journeying through rugged mountainous lands, finding  
unexpected assistance, and when confronted with the need to make an impossible  
journey to the ends of the earth, across the sea, is aided by either the  
Winds themselves or by the King of the Eagles, who carry her to her destination  
and the rescue of the ensorcelled, sleeping, prince who is her long-lost  
husband. (There is something oddly familiar about that last, isn't there?)

 

So I have played with, or paid homage to, both sources with the  
suggestion that Lúthien must in fact struggle to reach the abode  
of the dead — and this too is not mere supposition on my part, based on  
world mythology and the preceding texture of the story, which has been  
far from easy on our heroine, as in one of the outline-drafts for the "lost  
cantos" of the Lay of Leithian, it speaks, following the lines, "the meeting  
and farewell of Beren and Tinúviel beneath Hirilorn. Burial of Huan  
and Beren," of the "Fading of Lúthien. _Her journey to Mandos."_  
(Emphasis mine.)

 

That it is described as a journey, and intended to warrant a  
descriptive section in the canto, indicates to me that it was not  
an easy jaunt. Eagles and other great birds have always been seen as spirit-messengers  
and bearers of the dead to the realms of immortality (q.v. the sculpted  
images of various Roman emperors being shown in apotheosis) in every culture  
around the globe; while the idea that Lúthien's Maiar side might  
take over while she was unbodied, leading to all kinds of distractions,  
has its inspiration in part in the distractibility of immortals by the  
natural world demonstrated by Voronwë in _UT,_ "Of Tuor and his  
coming to Gondolin" — which would, as _Silm_. describes and Act IV  
shows, be exacerbated for those who are not only immortal but Immortal.  
That the Eagles, being who they are, great Maiar serving Manwë as  
messengers, exist in both the Seen and the Unseen realms is hardly to be  
questioned.  


* * *

  
For Beren not being among the shades of the Elven dead, I invoke the  
the 1930 typescript of the Quenta:

 

"More frail were Men, more easily slain by weapon or mischance, subject to ills, or grew old and died. What befell their spirits the Eldalië knew not. The Eldar said that they went to the halls of Mandos, but that their place of waiting was not that of the Elves, and Mandos under Ilúvatar knew alone whither they  
went after the time in his wide halls beyond the western sea. They were never reborn on earth, and  
none ever came back from the mansions of the dead, save only Beren son of Barahir, who after  
never spoke to mortal Men. Maybe their fate after death was not in the hands of the Valar." _(HOME:Shaping of Middle-earth_ )  


* * *

  
Yes, Huan is present. (Of course he's present — where else would he be?) But this is not mere conjecture, nor the artist's sense of "fittingness," nor sentimentality, that puts the faithful Hound waiting in the Halls with his beloved master for their liege lady. In those outline-drafts for the unwritten parts, after the line, "The wolf-hunt and death of Huan and Beren," follows the line, "The recall of Beren and Huan." So — he was always intended to be at Beren's side in Mandos, and after all, what would else would you expect of him? What he did there, and what followed that joint recalling, are sadly left to our imaginations: this is the result of mine.  


* * *

  
**Scene II.**

 

Considering that the Valar, in no recorded chronicle, are shown to have acted in haste and without deliberation, that there was a prolonged and widening discussion before ever Námo appealed to Manwë for assistance in solving the dilemma, (which as the mortal Bard reminds us was not solely the Doomsman's decision) is not completely implausible.  


* * *

  
Tulkas & Nessa, respectively, are the patrons of Husband and Wife (note that they are not the patrons of _couples_ , in the collective, which honor belongs to a different pair of demiurges) as well as being known for fighting (or rather, indeed, brawling), friendship, good cheer, and lively athletics. They are not famous for hard-headed logic or technical skills. This description of them, and the detailed story of Tulkas showing up out of the blue to the rescue during the primordial wars against Melkor and his subsequent marriage to Nessa may be found in _Silm.,_ "Valaquenta: Of the Valar" and "Of the Beginning  
of Days."  


* * *

  
Finrod: The Grey Annals, the chronicles of Beleriand kept by the folk of Doriath, relate (among other details of the Quest) that Finrod was not long in the Halls of Mandos. Bearing in mind that "not long" does not necessarily mean the same thing for Elves as for mortals, it is still a very significant remark — for it inevitably leads to the question, _How did they know?_ The Grey Annals being what they were, unless the notation is a "later scribal interpolation" it must necessarily predate the War of Wrath — which is the only point in the First Age after the Flight of the Noldor when corporeal, surface-traversing travellers arrive out of the West.

 

This means there are only two possible sources of this information. The first, least likely, is via the Eagles, who travel freely between the continents — but there is not much indication that they spend a great deal of time bringing news to people in Beleriand, or dealing with any save the people of Gondolin on a regular basis; nor would there be any probable way for the news to arrive from Gondolin between the Geste and the fall of Doriath, since the only significant egress from the Hidden Kingdom was during the disastrous expedition to the battle that would become known as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and there was not a lot of time for chatting and catching up for Turgon at that debacle, and the already shattered state of communications and travel in Beleriand post-Bragollach became a nightmare of Enemy occupation. So, barring a post-fall-of-Gondolin rewrite at the Havens, when the survivors of Gondolin united with the remnants of Doriath and Cirdan's following (or even later revision), there is one probable answer — and that is Beren and Lúthien themselves, upon their final return to Menegroth.

 

Now, this could, logically, have merely been conveyed to them; they might have only asked, and/or been told the news — that, perhaps, he had already been released. My reasons for taking a different tack are again, not mere sentimentality, but as with Huan's presence, a way of exploring a huge number of ramifications, implications, and cultural aspects of Valinorean history in a natural and dramatic manner. Because, after all, if he were still there — does anyone seriously think he wouldn't be meddling, too?  


* * *

  
Amarië: the facts of the case are few, but significant: we know that she was Finrod's true-love; we know that she was of the Vanyar, like his grandmother; we know that she did not go with him to Middle-earth, but remained behind in the West, at her family's wishes. From this, and from a few other things, we can however deduce a good bit more. Being of the Fair Elves, she would indeed be "pious and godsfearing" — but in the  
rarified, heady way almost of archangels themselves, not any sort of benighted  
folk-supersition, because the home of her people is literally right down  
the hill from Taniquetil, and so they walk among the gods most of all of  
the Eldar, and have the greatest and most direct knowledge of them, since  
they and their lord Ingwë were the first and most ready to join the  
Valar — and, since they are most concerned with music and understanding,  
in a mystical sense, unlikely to sympathize much with the desire for or  
interest in things, whether as collectibles or as technology, and  
even less likely to sympathize with rivalry, strife, and instability.

 

So much for generalizations. In specific, one can safely say that her  
family took a dim view of the proposed union, since it was in obedience  
to their objections that she did not join Finrod in the Return — and that  
she was extremely angry with him as well, because she obeyed them. If they had not had such misgivings, it is unlikely, given the deep reluctance displayed to break up or block even the most ill-advised of lovers in Aman, Finwë and Indis, that they would have been so forceful about it. It is essential to remember that Elenwë, the wife of Turgon, who died in the course of the Crossing, was Vanyar as well. (Why might they have objected to Finrod, one might ask, who after all is part-Vanyar himself? There is a very good answer in the fact of his extremely contentious extended family, who by this time were deeply embroiled in feuding and had been for quite a few years.) And if Amarië herself had not been furious with him, it is unlikely, given the generally-intractable nature of the Eldar, male and female, who feature in the chronicles of the First Age, that any parental disapproval would have sufficed to restrain her from going. (Again, I point to the example of Elenwë.)

 

Why furious? Well, Vanyar or not, the Eldar are proud. Rejection isn't something they deal with well at all, as the stories indicate. And to be set second, below either (in less-rational moments) mere things, like treasure and vengeance, or (in more cool-headed recollection) other people, Noldor friends and relatives, all of whom have forsaken peace and gratitude and cooperation for greed and self-aggrandizement — or worst of all, the lure of far-off lands and strangers, quite incomprehensible to the Vanyar, content to dwell where they are and needing no more from life than what they have — is a hard thing for a relationship.

 

And, of course, she ought to be a match for Finrod — in the medieval  
sense, that is, where the concept of mate included the notion that both parties were equally matched and appropriate for each other on many different levels — unless of course one takes the view that it was an ill-advised, youthful folly, and they were neither of them suited for each other at all, which is a bit hard to justify, given that Finrod at least was over a hundred at the time of the Return: not exactly a smitten young fifty-year-old with no experience of judging character, his own included. If they are really soul-mates, then Amarië is bound to be just as intelligent, perceptive, good-willed, and energetic as her would-be consort. (Which is rather a frightening thought, actually: not one, but two of them, working in tandem?) But a messy break-up, and four-hundred-sixty-plus years to brood about it, and the conviction of unshakable moral superiority, is a very bad situation to start over from.

 

—In other words, they're Doomed. (Think Nargothrond, and Finrod's response to rejection before the assembled folk there. Mirror it. —Take cover.)  


* * *

  
"daughter of twilight" — Amarië's epithet is actually merely the literal meaning of her given name, _Tinúviel_ , being the etymology of the word for nightingale. The situation becomes particularly ironic if it is borne in mind throughout that Lúthien is the daughter of one of the Ainur.  


* * *

  
garment of hair: as well as recognizing the fact that there is something definitely outré about Lúthien's "magic," this is an invocation of later events in Doriath, and the insulting joke that Saeros — a relative newcomer to that realm, as well as seriously lacking in tact and judgment — makes to Túrin about the women of Dor-lomin. If Túrin had only waited a moment longer before hitting Saeros, someone else (once the stunned disbelief had worn off) would very likely have done it for him.  


* * *

"in trouble" — the idea that  
Finrod and his staunchest supporters would be a significantly disruptive force in the Halls of Awaiting is based on the ceaseless energy that the King displayed in his lifetime, from taking charge of the March over the Helcaraxë to maintaining a vast communications network and overseeing  
it personally, and the sense that death, and Mandos itself, doesn't automatically  
change a person or individual personality. The hazards of having a relentlessly-inquisitive,  
adventurous, well-meaning speculative metaphysician famously known for  
underground building projects — and ten martial companions absolutely committed  
to him — on the premises also make for an amusing contrast with all the descriptions of the Halls in prose and poetry as a place of stillness, profound quiet, tranquility and meditation. (It also provides me  
at least with a great deal of diversion, considering the problems posed by the existence of a genuine, honest-to-goodness Philosopher King.)  


* * *

  
There should be a noticeable difference between the attitudes of the Ten (with individual variation, of course) now and in their interactions with Beren back in Act II, which were characterized by admiration, respect, and affection, but with a certain reserve — which is now entirely vanished. They have journeyed, fought, been POWs, suffered, and died together; he is no longer an honoured, but essentially-alien ally, nor is their respect for him due to the storied deeds of a stranger, nor their affection secondhand, so to speak, the inheritance of his father and kin.  


* * *

  
Meássë: in _LT1_ , she's named as one who brings mead to the guests in the hall of Tulkas, and a warrior-goddess — in other words, she's a valkyrie. Tulkas, however, is no Odin, and Nessa nothing like Erde, so it only makes sense that their followers would also be of more cheery disposition.  


* * *

Fëanor: nowhere  
does it say that Finwë's eldest son was kept in solitary confinement — what it does say is that "he comes no more among his kin," which could be a poetic way of saying that he can't — but since any number of his kin have also been in the Halls of Mandos during subsequent Ages, and given the usual understanding of a phrase like "So-and-so never comes to visit", a reasonable conclusion is that his isolation is voluntary, though not unconnected with the reasons that he will be there for the forseeable future. (It is also imporant for fellow _HOME_ junkies to bear in mind that at this juncture the Second Prophecy concerning the Dagor Dagorath has not been made: Túrin is still a small child and Tuor not yet born, far less his son Eärendil — and Morgoth not yet exiled to the Void, far less his future return predicted.) Whether it is for reasons of remorse, denial, pride, or combinations of all three, the implication is that until the War is ended, he will not be ready, or willing, or able, to break free of what the Vedic authors call _maya_ , self-maintained illusions about the world and one's role in it, and attain _dharma_ , the state of righteous harmony characterized by clarity of vision and purpose untainted by selfishness.  


* * *

  
Glaurung: this is of course an invocation of _LOTR:FOTR,_ "A Long-Expected Party," and just as that sequence has deeper and darker resonances, so too this, since that "golden worm" will ultimately conquer Orodreth and hold power as the last King in Nargothrond.)  


* * *

  
Roch: as subsequent lines hopefully make clear, this is just Sindarin for horse.  


* * *

  
"Healers" — any reader of _Silm._ who doesn't think Lúthien's handling of the situation merits awe hasn't spent much time dealing with trauma while violence is still on-going — or thinking about it (or even taking people to the emergency room.)  


* * *

  
Beren's comment about the left-over gouges from Fingolfin's duel with Morgoth now some twelve years back come from the Lay of Leithian and the outlines, where the "pitted plain" is specifically noted as they approach the guarded Gates of Angband.  


* * *

  
"under Morgoth's seat" — Note what two pertinent facts Beren has omitted, as he describes their infiltration attempt.  


* * *

  
Beren's description of the great hall of Angband, Lúthien duelling with Morgoth, the account of the Iron Crown falling like a wheel of thunder, Beren frantically trying to pull the stone off, then remembering the knife, its subsequent breaking, their panicked flight, forgetting their disguises, and getting cornered by Carcharoth in the hallway, all come from LL1, Canto XIII.  


* * *

  
"fireballs" — all this sequence, as described by Beren, is actually canonical, coming from an outline for the unwritten Cantos (the bracketed words are somewhat smudged in the penciled original and conjectural):

 

"Carcharoth goes mad and drives all [orcs] before him like a wind. The sound of his awful howling  
causes rocks to split and fall. There is an earthquake underground. Morgoth's wrath on waking. The gateway [falls] in and hell is blocked, and great fires and smokes burst from Thangorodrim. Thunder and lightning. Beren lies dying before the gate. Tinúviel's  
song as she kisses his hand and prepares to die. Thorondor comes down and bears them amid the lightning that [stabs] at them like spears and a hail of arrows from the battlements. They pass above  
Gondolin and Lúthien sees the white city far below, [gleaming] like a lily in the valley."  


* * *

  
Yup, they were those Eagles — old Thorondor and his two kids Gwaihir and Landroval. For some reason still obscure to me, Christopher Tolkien decided that having them be the same as in LOTR was somehow wrong,  
and edited out their names from the published _Silm.,_ along with other small asides, important and less-so. (The story-within-a-story about  
Lúthien's tears falling to the ground during their flight and causing a spring to well up, a legend of Beleriand which might be true, evocative of various classical myths, is charming, but not crucial; the bit that refers to the Eschaton is not the first, but definitely the latter.) This rescue-under-heavy-fire is more than deserving of a DFC, I should think.  


* * *

  
Beren's recovering in Spring, as told in _Silm.,_ has suggestive similarity to the end of the Bragollach offensive at the close of that winter (to the extent that fighting cooled down at that time, if you will excuse the pun.) It is merely my conjecture that his awakening came with equinox, when the amount of sunlight becomes greater than the duration of darkness, however.

 

His being trapped in an unpleasant dream world is also described in the _Silmarillion_ , but earlier in LL1, Canto X, he has had a similar experience, if much shorter, during the night when he was being healed of the arrow-wound by Lúthien:

 

The shadows fell from mountains grim.

Then sprang about the darkened North

the Sickle of the Gods, and forth

each star there stared in stony night

radiant, glistering cold and white.

But on the ground there is a glow,

a spark of red that leaps below:

under woven boughs beside a fire

of crackling wood and sputtering briar

there Beren lies in drowsing deep,

walking and wandering in sleep.

Watchful bending o'er him wakes

a maiden fair; his thirst she slakes,

his brow caresses, and softly croons

a song more potent than in runes

or leeches' lore hath since been writ.

Slowly the nightly watches flit.

The misty morning crawleth grey

from dusk to the reluctant day.

 

Then Beren woke and opened eyes,

and rose and cried, 'Neath other skies,

in lands more awful and unknown,

I wandered long, methought, alone

to the deep shadow where the dead dwell;

but ever a voice that I knew well,

like bells, like viols, like harps, like birds,

like music moving without words,

called me, called me through the night,

enchanted drew me back to light!

Healed the wound, assuaged the pain!

Now we are come to morn again,

new journeys once more lead us on—

to perils whence life may be won,

hardly for Beren; and for thee

a waiting in the wood I see,

beneath the trees of Doriath,

while ever follow down my path

the echoes of thine elvish song,

where hills are haggard and roads are long.'

 

And they pick up fighting right where they left off the day before… (Beren's arguments to her as he has reported them to the Ten, as to why they cannot just camp out in the woods forever are almost exactly as they are given in the following verses of the Canto, by the way.)  


* * *

  
chaos in Doriath: this is described tersely but clearly in the outline-drafts:

 

"The embassy meets the onslaught of Carcharos who by fate or the power of the Silmaril bursts into Doriath. All perish save Mablung who brings the news. Devastation of the woods. The wood-elves flee to the caves."

 

This is followed by the note that the three travelers find the woods eerily silent and empty as they proceed towards Menegroth.  


* * *

  
The story of Beren aiding Finrod in the earlier verbal combat with Sauron derives from LL1, Canto VII, where the Eldar are commanded to swear a terrible oath of fealty to Morgoth which curses all life and creation along with the Powers — something which if they were true minions they would not balk at, but which they cannot bring themselves to utter — so Beren leaps into the breach, so to speak, by mouthing off to the Lord of Wolves in a diversionary attempt:

 

'…Whom do you serve, Light or Mirk?

Who is the maker of mightiest work?

Who is the king of earthly kings,

the greatest giver of gold and rings?

Who is the master of the wide earth?

Who despoiled them of their mirth,

the greedy Gods? Repeat your vows,

Orcs of Bauglir! Do not bend your brows!

Death to light, to law, to love!

Cursed be moon and stars above!

May darkness everlasting old

that waits outside in surges cold

drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun!

May all in hatred be begun,

and all in evil ended be,

in the moaning of the endless Sea!'

 

But no true Man nor Elf yet free

would ever speak that blasphemy,

and Beren muttered: 'Who is Thû

to hinder work that is to do?

Him we serve not, nor to him owe

obeisance, and we now would go.'

 

Thû laughed: 'Patience! Not very long

shall ye abide. But first a song

I will sing to you, to ears intent.'

Then his flaming eyes he on them bent,

and darkness black fell round them all.

Only they saw as through a pall

of eddying smoke those eyes profound

in which their senses choked and drowned.

 

And the battle begins in earnest…  


* * *

  
"Great Chief" — the "name" Boldog which causes so much confusion in the examination of the draft versions and outlines of the Lay in _LB_ may not actually be a proper name at all, but a  title, like _Khan_ or _Imperator_ , and thus might not have been intended to refer to any one orc-chieftain, but to whichever of them was acclaimed leader (no doubt after surviving rounds of challenge first, like Uglûk in _LOTR:TTT)_ of the battle-group instead. This solution (another "yes" to an-either or, I'm afraid) occurred to me after finding the word means "powerful" + "slayer" which strongly evokes a ritual epithet, rather than a personal name, (though it could of course be both.) Thus, the Boldog sent to capture Lúthien after Morgoth discovers rumours of her flight, and who is killed in combat by Thingol while the Northern forces are destroyed by the army of Doriath on its way to Nargothrond, doesn't have to be the same Boldog whose was earlier killed testing Doriath's borders, the lack of current information concerning which event caused such disastrous results.  


* * *

  
letter: that the infamous missive concerning not only Lúthien but Beren and Finrod sent to Thingol by Celegorm and Curufin was afterwards returned to Orodreth by his great-uncle, is found in the outlines; the method, that there was a river path along Esgalduin that was a regular line of communication between the two kingdoms, is mentioned in _UT,_ "Narn i Hin Húrin," where Morwen, threatening to attempt her own crossing of Sirion, is taken to it by Mablung:

 

"Will you not return?"

"No!" she said.

"Then I must help you," said Mablung, " though it is against my own will. Wide and deep here is Sirion, and perilous to swim for beast or man."

"Then bring me over by what ever way the Elven-folk are used to cross," said Morwen, "or else I will try the swimming."

Therefore Mablung led her to the twilight meres. There amid the creeks and reeds ferries were kept hidden and guarded on the east shore; for by that way messengers would pass to and fro between Thingol and his kin in Nargothrond.  


* * *

  
It is an irony that doubtless did not much amuse her parents, that while they were looking for her, and after they had given up hope of finding her, Lúthien was in fact inside the borders of Doriath, fending not only for herself but the convalescent Beren, with Huan's help.  


* * *

  
Beren's wretched Sindarin accent grating on Thingol and conveying the impression of deliberate disrespect is not only to be found in HOME but intriguingly mirrors a conversation reported in _Letters_ between Professor Tolkien and an officer from New England during WWII — the young  
Yankee rather obstreperously challenged JRRT's British accent as phoney and put-on, and was somewhat surprised to learn that not only was it quite  
unaffected, his own "normal" American accent sounded, to his interlocutor, equally affected, as if he were deliberately trying to sound uncouth. (They  
also had a bit of a heated discussion on the matter of feudalism, not too surprisingly.) After this eye-opener (if such can properly be used of a matter strictly aural) however, the American became much less obnoxious, according to JRRT, and willing to look at such subjective impressions from a more objective and technical light, and they parted on good terms. (Myself, I wonder where in the Northeast the kid was from: up in the northern hills and to the west, the accent is surprisingly "southern," being part of the original Appalachian farming culture — this is undoubtedly how Gen. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, from Maine, was able to convince a group of Southern soldiers he was one of their officers, and so escape capture during the Civil War. But some of the Boston-area dialects are so gruesomely distorted as to cause physical pain in out-of-state listeners: if you get the for-me-many-years-incomprehensible joke, "I'm outta here like a bald guy," you will begin to gather why.)  


* * *

Daeron: it's unlikely that they would have learned about the bard slipping off during the chaos of the initial searches for the escaped princess, though remotely possible that Huan might have heard from his avian contacts. My assumption is that everyone had more pressing things on their minds than wondering about someone presumably safe at home.  


* * *

Melian & Thingol honeymooning in Dorthonion is mentioned almost at the very beginning of the second Lay fragment, in what is surely not a coincidence, as well as in _Silm.,_ "Of Beren and Lúthien,"  
— "But the waters of Tarn Aeluin were held in reverence, for they were clear and blue by day and by night were a mirror for the stars; and it was said that Melian herself had hallowed that water in days of old."  


* * *

  
Beleg: as Thingol's chief Ranger, and given his exploits at infiltrating Nargothrond to bring back the news of Lúthien's further flight and the exile of the sons of Fëanor, he would be the most likely candidate for such an intelligence mission.  


* * *

  
That Carcharoth was intended and put in place as an anti-Huan device is not in question — post-disaster (at least from Morgoth's viewpoint it was a disaster) investigations indicating the presence of Huan at the debacle of Tol Sirion, a panicked Dark Lord took quick and urgent steps in the following weeks to set up an effective (hopefully) defense system against Giant Sentient Invincible-Except-By-Prophecy Hounds of Valinor. This is stated in the rough drafts: "Morgoth…thinks it is Huan and fashions a vast wolf—Carcharas—mightiest of all wolves to guard his door," and in slightly different wording,

 

"Morgoth hears of the ruin of Thû's castle. His mind is filled with misgiving and anger. The  
gates of Angband strengthened; because of the rumour of Huan he ~~fashions the greatest~~ chooses the fiercest wolf from all the  
whelps of his packs, and feeds him on flesh of Men and Elves, and enchants him so that he becomes the most great and terrible of all beasts that ever have been—Carcharos."

 

Canto XII goes into it at some length, detailing the rationale behind it and the morbid processes by which one force-grows a super-werewolf, which I will quote here again.

 

Then came word

most passing strange of Lúthien

wild-wandering by wood and glen,

and Thingol's purpose long he weighed,

and wondered, thinking of that maid

so fair, so frail. A captain dire,

Boldog, he sent with sword and fire

to Doriath's march; but battle fell

sudden upon him: news to tell

never one returned of Boldog's host,

and Thingol humbled Morgoth's boast.

Then his heart with doubt and wrath was burned:

new tidings of dismay he learned,

how Thû was o'erthrown and his strong isle

broken and plundered, how with guile

his foes no guile beset; and spies

he feared, till each Orc to his eyes

was half suspect. Still ever down

the aisléd forest came renown

of Huan baying, hound of war

that Gods unleashed in Valinor.

 

Then Morgoth of Huan's fate bethought

long rumoured, and in dark he wrought.

Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had

that in wolvish form and flesh were clad,

but demon spirits dire did hold;

and ever wild their voices rolled

in cave and mountain where they housed

and endless snarling echoes roused.

From these a whelp he chose and fed

with his own hand on bodies dead,

on fairest flesh of Elves and Men,

till huge he grew and in his den

no more could creep, but by the chair

of Morgoth's self would lie and glare,

nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast

to touch him. Many a ghastly feast

he held beneath that awful throne,

rending flesh and gnawing bone.

There deep enchantment on him fell,

the anguish and the power of hell;

more great and terrible he became

with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame,

with breath like vapours of the grave,

than any beast of wood or cave,

than any beast of earth or hell

that ever in any time befell,

surpassing all his race and kin,

the ghastly tribe of Draugluin.

 

Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw, name

the songs of Elves. Not yet he came

disastrous, ravening, from the gates

of Angband. There he sleepless waits;

where those great portals threatening loom

his red eyes smoulder in the gloom,

his teeth are bare, his jaws are wide;

and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide,

nor thrust with power his menace past

to enter Morgoth's dungeon vast…

 

There is moreover a weird parallel between the clash/combination of Light and Dark powers in Melian versus Ungoliant, which results in the blighted area between Dorthonion and Doriath, the "Mountains of Terror," where the "poison of Death" that was in the Spider-demon and her lethal aura which has corrupted that region wars and merges with the healing, life-giving power of the Maia who was once part of the original domain of Lórien and a companion of the Vala of renewed life, Vána — and the situation of Carcharoth-plus-the-Silmaril. On the one hand, the entire physical being of Carcharoth is so corrupted on so many levels that contact with the Varda-blessed jewel sears him, just as it did Morgoth; yet on the other hand, containing the primal life-energies, undiminished, of the universe, it gives him inordinate power even as it burns him, so that he is maintained in a permanent state of destruction and renewing. In a way, he is but another casualty of the war, like Nan Dungortheb itself, since whatever pride and attraction to violence lured him to follow Melkor, this fallen Ainu can hardly have had any notion what he was getting himself into: if he weren't mad to begin with, such a grisly ordeal would certainly have made him so.  


* * *

  
Melian telling Lúthien that Beren is still alive but captive, for,

 

'The Lord of Wolves hath prisons dark,

chains and enchantments cruel and stark,

there trapped and bound and languishing

now Beren dreams that thou dost sing'

 

is found in LL1, Canto V, when she asks the Maia what has become of him and gets the bad news. (There's so much elegant, understated sensuality in the Lay of Leithian fragments that I'm surprised they're not more widely known; I guess it's the understatement.) The differing attitudes towards sex, implicit and embodied in the fact of Elves celebrating the date of conception, not of birth, as age-marker, follow naturally from the greater unity with the natural world that is theirs (including body-mind, which makes conception a controllable and voluntary action on the part of parents) and spiritually Unfallen state (unlike mortals, their Fall is the rebellion of the Noldor, a much more limited corruption, though certainly no less devastating in its consequences.)

 

A reverential but entirely neurosis-free and non-aggressive attitude towards reproduction is the natural result — "seldom is told of any deeds of lust among them" — and although Beren coming from a much more "primitive" society as well as one whose culture is heavily influenced by Eldar beliefs and attitudes (and being for all practical purposes a devout pantheist) would be far less afflicted by the neuroses of "modern civilization," there is still a world of difference between regarding something as Mystery and therefore not casually or irreverently spoken of, and not regarding it as any different from the rest of everyday life at all. The affectionate teasing his comrades subject him to, born of their incomprehension of his embarrassment, is intended not only to point up this fact (and contrast it with contemporary attitudes in our world), but to illustrate the confusion that mortals in turn experienced while dealing with the Eldar, the apparent contradiction between their vast knowledge and sophistication, and the apparently-childlike "naiveté" which doesn't understand (as Men see it) the seriousness of things ("Athrabeth") — whereas to the Elves it appears that Men are both troubled and troublesome, and the recipients of "strange gifts." _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.")

 

It's not entirely unrelated to their differing approaches to the Powers, as well, and the cognitive dissonance that Beren has mentioned earlier when trying to cope with statements like "And then I asked Varda…" which also follows from the difference of their respective backgrounds, which only gets worse the more deities he encounters.  


* * *

  
The Nargothrondish scholar's theory (it is safe to assume she is the same one who didn't end up helping Lúthien in Act III) about mortals being lesser spirits incarnated by Morgoth is a variant of a common Gnostic tradition: the idea that the spirit world alone is the creation of God, and the physical world that of Lucifer; this form of Duallism necessarily requires that procreation, and life (as we think of it, organic and biological) itself, be regarded as intrinsically evil, since both serve to imprison pure souls in a corrupt material plane.  


* * *

  
The going-to-ground of Carcharoth as described in _Silm_. and the _Tale of Tinúviel_ represents the big-game hunter's worst nightmare — even apart from sentience and demonic ferocity plus enhanced, off-the-scale size, to have a wounded, angry, invisible predator lurking in impassible territory as the sun goes down is one of those situations that no one trying to deal with a maneater  ever wants to find one's self in.  


* * *

  
"Then Mablung took up a knife and ripped up the belly of the Wolf; and within he was wellnigh  
all consumed as with a fire, but the hand of Beren that held the jewel was yet incorrupt. But when Mablung reached forth to touch it, the hand was no more, and the Silmaril lay there unveiled, and the light of it filled the shadows of the forest all about them. Then quickly and in fear Mablung took it and set it in Beren's  
living hand; and Beren was aroused by the touch of the Silmaril, and held it aloft, and bade Thingol receive it.  
'Now is the Quest achieved,' he said, 'and my doom full-wrought'; and he spoke no more."  


* * *

  
"tarrying" — There are several different ways to tarry, and in a place where one isn't technically supposed to be. One can do so loudly, challengingly, demanding of one's rights, and asserting of them — which sometimes works, but isn't pleasant for anyone involved, whether it works or not. Or, one can do so unobtrusively, not making an issue of it, for as long as possible; this will often be overlooked, and sometimes not even noticed, by the earthly powers-that-be. (This is different from hiding, note, which only works as long as it is successful, since once discovered the authorities will take an extremely dim view of further tarrying.) How do I know about staying in places technically off-limits? Erm . . . Ahem. All we are told by the texts is that Beren — unlike any other known mortal, before or since — tarried there as per Lúthien's instructions, so we must imagine for ourselves what said tarrying would be like. Given his behaviour in Neldoreth, I tend to the second option as most likely — and followed by the same utter stubbornness that outstayed welcome in Dorthonion for eight years; though nonviolently, as it seems highly unlikely to me that the policy strictly maintained by the Valar of non-coercion and non-interference would suddenly be changed.  


* * *

  
"wrath of Ossë" — that mercurial and hot-tempered deity is usually the one responsible for ocean storms and deadly waves, but there is at least one notable exception in the chronicles.  


* * *

  
dew: excess energy from Telperion (in essence, small amounts of raw starlight) saved up in liquid form illuminates the Halls according to one legend.  


* * *

  
That Beren was "reserved for torment" after Finrod's death is found in the Lay and the outline-drafts, as well as being implicit in the warning Sauron gave them, that if no one gave in, the last one would be tortured (in cruder, less psychological ways, that is) until he broke. However, since Finrod had accidentally given away their identities already while  
trying to convince Beren that it was a futile idea for him to think that he could save Finrod by turning himself in, and Sauron had already dismissed Beren as not knowing enough to be worth keeping alive, the only obvious remaining motive is vengeance, which is a pleasure the Lord of Wolves is willing to put off, while dealing with the present ongoing disturbance at his gates.

 

This casual disregard of the mortal as mere muscle, and not any longer a major player with Dorthonion effectively "pacified," is of course fortunate (and not indeed too uncommon in so-called intelligence services today, who all too often overlook key figures in conspiracy) as what would have happened, subsequently, had Sauron known, when Lúthien arrived, that it was her own true love he had in the dungeon, does not bear thinking about.  


* * *

  
"Wild Man" — although there is no reference to the Druedain in the published _Silm.,_ this does not mean that they were not present in Beleriand, as is revealed in _UT,_ where we find that they, although few, shy and solitary, were beloved by the Elves who encountered them for their gifts of mirth and laughter, and also were honored and in demand for their skills as trackers and ferocious enemies of the Orcs. (Readers may recall that in Act II, the sons of Fëanor have mockingly suggested that Beren might be one of them.) However, they (prudently, perhaps) preferred to keep to themselves, by and large, although there is a story about one shaman of the Woodwoses who protected the family of a close friend among the Haladin, at considerable cost to himself; this story, "The Faithful Stone," is interesting as well in that we find yet again in Arda the concept of imbuing an inanimate object with one's essence, to focus (in this case remotely) one's power so as to be effectively in two places at once.

 

Like everyone else in Beleriand, they were driven south by the successes of Morgoth and eventually forced to resettle in the eastern, remaining parts of Middle-earth after the Dark Lord's defeat. However, some of them even took advantage of the gift of the Valar and journeyed to Númenor, where they lived until that realm began its decline, returning to Middle-earth with the cryptic (yet prophetic) statements that the place was no longer stable. (Now there are potential stories that would be interesting to tell, and hear, about those adventurous deep-woods tribesfolk crossing the Sea and living on what would become Atalantë!)  


* * *

  
Halmir: this was originally the name of a son of Orodreth killed by Orcs (as mentioned in _LB,_ "The Lay of the Children of Húrin," Canto III) who disappears out of the later versions, though not it must be said necessarily out of history. I didn't include him in The Script because I felt that it would be too much of a distraction, too diffusive of the familial and social energies already at play in Nargothrond, and would weaken the dynamic of the Finduilas-Gwindor-Turin triangle. However, it would certainly be possible to do a fanfic set in Nargothrond, which would include the unfortunate Prince, and could quite effectively use, as is implied in LB, his capture and death while out on patrol as further reason for Orodreth's unwillingness to engage in offensive measures, and could also make quite effective use of his loss as yet another son-replacement factor in Turin's instant adoption as Young Champion of the King, against all rational probability. (If I were to do it, I would follow the friendship of Gwindor and his brother with the Prince's children, and emphasize Gwindor's role as a first son-substitute, after his friend Halmir's killing, in Orodreth's affections — which would make his defiance and subsequent loss at the Nirnaeth all the bitterer to Orodreth and make even more inevitable his own displacement by the Adanedhel as tanist. I don't have that story to write, myself, unfortunately, poignant though it would be.) But I have given his name to a fallen warrior of Nargothrond in tribute.  


* * *

  
Beren saying he should have died and been buried with his dad comes from LL2, the Canto X fragments, where just before getting run down by the exiled sons of Fëanor he and Lúthien are having a heated argument over what they are going to do next:

 

"My word, alas, I now must keep

and not the first of men to weep

for oath in pride and anger sworn.

Too brief the meeting, brief the morn,

too soon comes night when we must part!

All oaths are for breaking of the heart,

with shame denied, with anguish kept.

Ah! would that now unknown I slept

with Barahir beneath the stone,

and thou wert dancing still alone,

unmarred, immortal, sorrowless,

singing in joy of Elvenesse.'

 

To which she, unimpressed, returns:

 

'That may not be. For bonds there are

stronger than stone or iron bar,

more strong than proudly spoken oath.

Have I not plighted thee my troth?

Hath love no pride nor honour then?

Or dost thou deem then Lúthien

so frail of purpose, light of love?

By stars of Elbereth above!

If thou wilt here my hand forsake

and leave me lonely paths to take,

then Lúthien will not go home—"

 

Considering this exchange in the light of what they've both just been through, here is all the warrant needed (if it should be needed) for the characterizations of Beren as a guilt-ridden depressive and Lúthien as sarcastic, impatient, and absolutely indomitable.


	7. Enteract  Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

There are two (perhaps three) reasons for dealing with the main actions of the Geste in this roundabout fashion. The first, most basic one is simply that there's no way (for me at least) to do it, that the contrast between the subject matter and the tone is too great.

Part of this, and possibly a separate reason in its own right, is the difficulty noted by The Professor in "On Fairy-stories" intrinsic in  converting fantasy to drama. Logically, it would seem that this difficulty would forbid the existence of the Script itself; but in fact there is very little that is fantasy, strictly speaking, about it. Aside from Huan's presence, the special effects are minimal, and mostly peripheral — could be largely done away with with very little rewriting and recasting into narrative chorus. It is character-driven drama, and the parts of it that are fantastic and not mundane, derive (or should) from the dialogue itself, and the images that those words invoke in the imagination of the audience. Little more disbelief should require suspension, either by work of stagecraft or by (heaven forfend) the audience, than in presenting a production of _The Misanthrope_ or _The Cocktail Party,_ were the Script somehow to be put on. By far the greatest part of the budget would be devoted to the sets instead of the effects; and even those could be sketchily evoked by a skilled production team, as I have seen done with an excellent student production of the _Winter's Tale_.

But that would not be possible, attempting to dramatize the several battles at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, or the Anfauglith with its transformation scenes, or the wizards' duel between Morgoth and Lúthien, or the Eagles, or the Hunting of the Wolf — those episodes are the imagery, and unless storyboarded,* simply cannot be presented in a scripted format. And so like Shakespeare in _Henry V,_ I leave it to the combined skill of the Narrator and the audience's imagination to make "this glassy square" the contested places of Beleriand, whether the struggles be magical or mundane.

Finally — the ultimate reason for the Script's existence is to bring out that which is hidden, and thus illustrating the ramifications of the Geste, and the widening repercussions of the waves created by it, seems to me the most appropriate way of treating these episodes.

* * *

  
*No. Don't even start. That includes you, NovusSibyl.  


* * *

**Nargothrond:**

This is the center of my characterization of Orodreth — this scene as drawn in both of the Lay fragments, each version of which has its own dramatic delights. Again, I feel rather badly, since I can't compare with the originals, which I'm simply translating out here with minimal invention: all the work is essentially done for me, I'm just filling in the gaps.

Very simply, Orodreth has to be the same person who on the one hand didn't argue strongly on his brother's behalf and who lost an undamaged command to the Enemy…yet who for centuries held a castle which was not simply a remote garrison but the capital of a province which controlled the only north-south corridor in Western Beleriand, through which all friendly traffic for much of the First Age was compelled to travel (the alternative being going across Ard-galen, down through Aglon, south through the east side of the subcontinent, then west along Doriath's southern borders to the seacoast, or the reverse — not very practical at all), who enjoyed a friendly relationship with the traitors prior to the coup, — and who, when presented a second time with the alternative of passive non-resistance to the status quo and cathartic violence, held against both strong influences with these words:

                "The kingdom now  
        is mine alone. I will allow.  
        no spilling of kindred blood by kin,"

when

        "Let us slay these faithless lords untrue!"  
        the fickle folk now loudly cried  
        with Felagund who would not ride.

In the second fragmentary version of the Lay, this scene is even more fully developed:

            To Nargothrond no more he came  
        but thither swiftly ran the fame  
        of their dead king and his great deed,  
        how Lúthien the Isle had freed:  
        the Werewolf Lord was overthrown,  
        and broken were his towers of stone.  
        For many now came home at last  
        who long ago to shadow passed;  
        and like a shadow had returned  
        Huan the hound, though scant he earned  
        of praise or thanks from Celegorm.  
            There now arose a growing storm,  
        a clamour of many voices loud,  
        and folk whom Curufin had cowed  
        and their own king had help denied,  
        in shame and anger now they cried:  
        'Come! Slay these faithless lords untrue!  
        Why lurk they here? What will they do,  
        but bring Finarfin's kin to naught,  
        treacherous cuckoo-guests unsought?  
        Away with them!' But wise and slow  
        Orodreth spoke: 'Beware, lest woe  
        and wickedness to worse ye bring!  
        Finrod is fallen. I am king.  
        But even as he would speak, I now  
        command you. I will not allow  
        in Nargothrond the ancient curse  
        from evil unto evil worse  
        to work. With tears for Finrod weep  
        repentant! Swords for Morgoth keep!  
        No kindred blood shall here be shed.  
        Yet here shall neither rest nor bread  
        the brethren find who set at naught  
        Finarfin's house. Let them be sought,  
        unharmed to stand before me! Go!  
        The courtesy of Finrod show!'

        In scorn stood Celegorm, unbowed,  
        with glance of fire in anger proud  
        and menacing; but at his side  
        smiling and silent, wary-eyed,  
        was Curufin, with hand on haft  
        of his long knife. And then he laughed,  
        and 'Well?' said he. 'Why didst thou call  
        for us, Sir Steward? In thy hall  
        we are not wont to stand. Come, speak,  
        if aught of us thou has to seek!'

            Cold words Orodreth answered slow:  
        'Before the king ye stand. But know,  
        of you he seeks for naught. His will  
        ye come to answer, and to fulfil.  
        Be gone forever, ere the day  
        shall fall into the sea! Your way  
        shall never lead you hither more,  
        nor any son of Fëanor;  
        of love no more shall there be bond  
        between your house and Nargothrond!'

            'We will remember it,' they said,  
        and turned upon their heels, and sped,  
        saddled their horses, trussed their gear,  
        and went with hound and bow and spear,  
        alone; for none of all the folk  
        would follow them. No word they spoke  
        but sounded horns, and rode away  
        like wind at end of stormy day.

I hardly had to do anything. It's all there in the original, and a little consideration of the geopolitics and alternatives, (along with first- and second-hand experience of sibling and group dynamics) unfolds the whole messy interpersonal aspect of the setup of the situation, leading stage by stage inescapably yet not with absolute inevitability to the prophesied Doom.  


* * *

**Doriath:**

This scene, like the next, I had to build, and not merely re-present in modern unrhymed form; but the scene itself is merely gapfilling. The outlines of the unwritten cantos in _LB_ describe the "meanwhiles" in Doriath, the sorrow at the flight of Lúthien, how "Thingol's heart was hardened against Beren despite words of Melian," and relate how during the unsuccessful search for Lúthien, Daeron splits off from the rest of the seekers and disappears, with only rumors left through history of him wandering far in the East, where his flute might yet be heard. Celegorm's embassy shows up, and the letter, and the ambassadors, are so obnoxious, stating that "Beren and Felagund are dead, that Celegorm will make himself king of Narog, and while telling him that Lúthien is safe in Nargothrond and treating for her hand, hints that she will not return," and also warning him against troubling the matter of the Silmarils, that "Thingol is wroth — and is moved to think better of Beren, while yet blaming for the woes that followed his coming to Doriath, and most for loss of Dairon." And so he prepares an army to invade Nargothrond.  
  
Subsequently, however, things get even more complicated."Melian says she would forbid this evil war of Elf with Elf, but that never shall Thingol cross blade with Celegorm." The army sets out, but before they get too far they hit another invading Orc-host, sent out by Sauron in hopes of catching Lúthien, as the rumors of her wandering have reached the Enemy. Thingol's forces are victorious, and the King slays the Orc-chieftain himself, fighting with Mablung at his side.

(It is not clear whether it was the leader of the first Orc-raid, as in the completed portion, or the second raider captain, who was to be finally named Boldog, as in the outline; I'm going by the former, as that's the only instance where the enemy commander's name is relevant. I'm also going with the assumption that there were two raids, and that these were but the latest of many attempts on Doriath, not only on the basis of the LL fragments but also of the Lay of the Children of Húrin, where it is said of Sauron,

        Thû who was thronéd      as thane most mighty  
        neath Morgoth Bauglir;      whom that mighty one bade  
        'Go ravage the realm      of the robber Thingol,  
        and mar the magic      of Melian the Queen.'

I also find it logical that these would be chronic attempts over the First Age, but significantly stepped up in the past decade following the breaking of the Leaguer and most particularly the acquisition of the Gaurhoth as forward regional command.)

"Though victorious Thingol is filled with still more disquiet at Morgoth's hunt for Lúthien. Beleg goes forth from the camp on Doriath's borders and journeys, unseen by the archers, to Narog. He brings tidings of the flight of Lúthien, the rescue of Beren, and the exile of Celegorm and Curufin."

This sentence is what I've expanded into the second scenelet of the Enteract — though much of the matter of it has indeed been made present already in Act III through Lúthien's warnings regarding the likelihood of such actions. It shows a far greater level of maturity, both in terms of strategy and restraint, than was shown by the Noldor under Fingon at Alqualondë, despite outrageous provocation — exactly what one would expect of a successful leader with many embattled centuries of experience — as well as the quality and loyalty of his people. There's no sense that there is anything terribly exceptional (aside from the fact that it would likely be impossible for any one else in Beleriand) about Beleg ghosting into the heart of potentially-hostile territory and staying long enough to hear all relevant facts so that Thingol will be informed enough to act as prudently as possible: he's "the chief of his scouts," it's simply his job.

Even though the Lay does not set out the familial connections between the House of Finwë and the sovereign of Doriath (which may well not have been fully defined at the time of its inception) the outlines make it clear that it is both offenses, and not merely that against Lúthien, nor the personal insult of it, which put Elu quite literally up in arms. "He is roused to wrath by the hints of the letter that Celegorm will leave Felagund to die, and will usurp the throne of Nargothrond," and there is an intimation of weregild in the demand for "recompense," in additionto material support in efforts to locate Lúthien, that was later sent to Maedhros et al as Thingol's considered response to the news. This is quite in keeping with the ancient views of kinship whereby siblings' children were (in ideal at least) considered to be no different from one's own; q.v. Théoden's adoption of his niece and nephew in LOTR. Plainly the friendly relations between the two Elf-kings, revealed in detail in _Silm.,_ (where after the revelation of the Kinslaying has blown over, as Thingol said it would, Finrod not only has his friendship, but the ability to persuade him against his inclinations and better judgement in the matter of the Haladin) are background, even as the Kinslaying, from the earliest development of Nargothrond as a City proper.

The increased demoralization of Doriath, which began with Daeron's revelation and the assigning of the Quest, and Lúthien's subsequent contagious despair, is inevitable, given the succession of losses and bad news; it also is in keeping with the interconnection of leadership and populace, and the complicit responsibility for bad decisions and consequent Fate in the ancient worldview.

Finally, Thingol's closing words are not incompatible with the statement in the outlines that "He renews his vow to imprison Beren for ever if he does not return with a Silmaril, though Melian warns him that he knows not what he says," in harking back to the earlier part of the Lay, when his first inclination is to execute Beren, and only the reluctant recollection of his promise prevents him. It is also in line with the ancient patterns of bad decisions progressively interfering with the ability to heed or perceive divine warnings, despite all best intentions, seen equally throughout the _Silmarillion_ as the works of Aeschylus.

So while the specifics of the dialogue are my own devising, the substance and the scenario are entirely canonical.  


* * *

**Angband:**

This third is the most conjectured, but no less necessary or grounded in canon. It is noted in HOME (I think it's in _Shaping of Middle-earth)_ that Morgoth was mocked behind his back by the Orcs after his loss, and given the caustic and sullen attitude of the rank-and-file in LOTR towards Sauron, it isn't much of a stretch, I think, to guess how it would have sounded. It's also possible thus to reconcile the apparently contradictory statements in Silm that no songs were made about Fingolfin's Fall on either side, with the Lay's that "Orcs would after laughing tell" of the Duel — the answer being, —only when there was no chance of him overhearing! Dark Lords tend not to be the sort of easy-going commanders willing to turn an indulgent eye to such things as "morale checks" or the ribald songs that even Julius Caesar tolerated from his armies.

As for the substance of the griping — there's no guesswork about that at all. It's horribly yet hilariously clear that Sauron didn't make anything like a full, free, and frank disclosure of the circumstances surrounding the loss of his command. What he left out, and what he did say, can be reconstructed from the events that followed and the words of the Lay:

        Then his heart with doubt and wrath was burned:  
        new tidings of dismay he learned,  
        how Thû was o'erthrown and his strong isle  
        broken and plundered, how with guile  
        his foes now guile beset; and spies  
        he feared, till each Orcto his eyes  
        was half suspect. Still ever down  
        the aisléd forests came renown  
        of Huan baying, hound of war  
        that Gods unleashed in Valinor.

            Then Morgoth of Huan's fate bethought  
        long-rumoured, and in dark he wrought.  
        Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had  
        that in wolvish form and flesh were clad,  
        but demon spirits dire did hold...  
        From these a whelp he chose and fed  
        with his own hand on bodies dead,  
        on fairest flesh of Elves and Men,  
        till huge he grew and in his den  
        no more could creep, but by the chair  
        of Morgoth's self would lie and glare  
        nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast  
        to touch him...  
        There deep enchantment on him fell,  
        the anguish and the power of hell;  
        more great and terrible he became  
        with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame...

            Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw name  
        the songs of Elves. Not yet he came  
        disastrous, ravening, from the gates  
        of Angband. There he sleepless waits  
        where those great portals threatening loom...  
        and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide,  
        nor thrust with power his menace past  
        to enter Morgoth's dungeons vast.

So, the reports — sent from a safe distance by airborne courier — clearly contained no mention whatsoever of Lúthien, and quite possibly none of Beren, but plenty about disguised Noldor warrior-mages, and most of all about Huan. After all, which sounds better?

`    "We apprehended a dozen hostiles attempting to infiltrate`  
the DMZ disguised as our troops, and following routine  
processing discovered that the mission was comprised  
of not only one of the four top enemy commanders-in-chief  
but also that rebel human we thought had been napalmed  
a year ago. Subsequently the Valinorean Wolfkiller arrived  
on scene in company with Target Number Two and the  
two of them proceeded to sucker all my elite guard into an  
ambush and me to surrender at fangpoint, following which  
she used the information I had to give her to buy my life to  
demolish the base. We haven't yet determined if the two  
events were in any way connected, or what the adversaries'  
rationale for the attacks was. Please furnish more troops  
and a new HQ," 

or``

    "An elite enemy strike team led by the CIC of Nargothrond,  
disguised as one of our own units, and supported by the  
Valinorean Wolfkiller, made a stealth assault in an effort  
to retake the fortress. We took heavy casualties and  
although I swiftly detected their presence, successfully  
negated their mind-control attempts and survived personal  
combat on both physical and magical levels, I was unable  
to maintain control of the area and was forced to take  
steps that ensured the complete destruction of the base,  
thereby denying it to our adversaries. Unfortunately none  
of the Noldor unit survived for interrogation, but we are  
reviewing the after-action data and scrutinizing it to  
determine the rationale and timing of the attack. I am  
presently reorganizing my remaining forces in a secure  
location and will personally report to you as soon as I have  
avenged my honor and made the enemy pay for this."

The second summary is a whole lot more plausible-sounding, in every sense, and in Primary World terms as well, as anyone with any close experience of actual (non-Hollywood) military matters will aver. It's amazing what can be finessed in reports in terms like "routine replacements" or "inadvertent contact" — though the consequences, if and when the facts get out, can be far more unpleasant than owning up in the first place.

And this coverup worked both for and against Morgoth, because nobody outside Angband had any idea that Carcharoth had been rapidly force-grown as a fail-safe defense against the Hound of Valinor, which made for an extremely nasty surprise when discovered — but Morgoth had no idea that the most dangerous part of the equation was in fact that scared, unarmed, 1300-something Elven singer he'd been trying so long to acquire for personal as well as political reasons. Another example of the danger in getting what you've wished for…


	8. Scene II - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Finrod:  
    
You two -- went into Angband and took one of the jewels away. By yourselves. 

Luthien:  
    
With Huan's help. 

Finrod: [horrified, touching Beren's wrist ]  
    
Is that what happened to you? 

Beren:  
    
No. That was Carcaroth. 

Finrod:  
    
But you knocked -- Carcaroth -- out. 

Beren:  
    
But then he woke up. 

Luthien:  
    
\--I explained that, remember? 

Finrod: [mildly]  
    
I'm still trying to accept the fact that you're really here and not some sort of hallucination born of wishful thinking. 

Luthien: [remorseful]  
    
I'm sorry-- 

Finrod: [brushing her bangs aside]  
    
What happened to your hair? You look like a wild pony. 

Luthien: [laughing and crying together]  
    
Oh, no . . . not you too . . . ! 

Finrod:  
    
I -- no, I believe it, I simply cannot comprehend this.

[he shakes his head, laughing a little]

Let me endeavor to do so. --We'd heard of your exploit from several sources, but mostly from the newly-arrived -- there are several persons here who came not long after returning to Nargothrond, finding freedom sadly lacking as compared to expectations and recollection -- and I've had no end of trouble convincing the majority here that my older cousin from the Old Country isn't really twelve feet tall with a perpetual battle-aura brighter than the High-King's, let me assure you.

[Luthien gives a short incredulous laugh]

And they all said that you looked like the happiest couple in Middle-earth, and they were so pleased, and we were too, and it seemed as though things were going uphill, what with Sauron routed and no enemy base in that geographical corridor any more, and that was the last we knew, until the staff were all called away suddenly and with a great deal of worry expressed, talking about a sudden influx of casualties from Beleriand all intensely traumatized and no one's given us any meaningful answers since then.

Beren: [hollowly to himself]  
    
\--Carcaroth . . . 

Luthien: [getting warmer as she goes]  
    
Beren wouldn't go along with it -- too much happiness and he had to wallow in guilt some more and then try to immolate himself, and we tried to stop him, Huan and I, we really did -- but even though we could escape Nargothrond's security and defeat a Dark Lord, we were no match for Beren when it comes to out-and-out granite-hard stubbornness, not about going to Angband, not about refusing to take the peace we could get, not about going off to fight Carcaroth -- again!

[Beren cringes and ducks his head; Finrod grips his arm comfortingly]

I'm sorry. It's been a horrible year.

Finrod: [hesitantly]  
    
Did you like Nargothrond? --I mean -- that is, of course, aside from being a prisoner . . . ? 

Luthien: [incredulous]  
    
Finrod--! Really, do you think--

[she checks, and then looks sadly at him]

\--It was beautiful. It was just as lovely as you said it would be. I wish--

[she breaks off, shaking her head, and reaches out to stroke the side of his face. He gives her a rueful smile]

I wish I'd gotten there in time.

Finrod: [gently]  
    
So you could have watched me fade after? --You did.

[he looks at Beren]

You keep saying "Carcaroth" and I don't quite know what you're talking about. Is that a weapon? Or or a person? Or both, like Glaurung?

[Beren answers before Luthien can start to speak]

Beren: [meeting Finrod's eyes for the first time]  
    
  
Mine.

[pause -- Finrod stares at him, starting to make sense of it]

\--And Huan's.

[Finrod understands -- his expression changes to utter dismay and he cannot say anything. He reaches over and pulls them both against his shoulders, rocking them for a moment like children, resting his forehead against theirs. When they straighten he commands:]

Finrod:  
    
Tell me everything. 

Luthien: [tired and frustrated]  
    
Finrod, it's such a long story, and I've been telling it over and over and over again and-- 

Finrod: [quietly]  
    
I promise I'll listen.

[she stops and almost smiles -- he gives her a kiss on the forehead and stands, helping them both get up.]

Let's find someplace more comfortable than the floor, though, if you don't mind.

[glances around -- musing:]

I wonder if benches would qualify as a technical violation . . .

[the others look at each other, wondering what on earth he's talking about. A woman's voice echoes through the door from down the hallway:]

\--I shall not speak with him, dost thou not hear me plain? I'll have none of this--

Finrod:  
    
Grinding Ice--!

[Casts around frantically, ducks behind Huan. A tall and radiantly blonde woman sweeps in accompanied by Nienna's Apprentice. She could be played excellently by Uma Thurman, on loan from Gattaca. The faint (given the lighting) but definite living color of her and the slight shadow she casts make for a somewhat disquieting effect, as they do for her escort. Her gown is sleeveless, off the shoulder and flowing white, with a wide begemmed sash -- Art-Nouveau Egyptian-classical, like a Mucha-esque Cleopatra.]

Apprentice:  
    
My Master asks but that you hear him out -- whether you say anything or not, milady. 

Amarie:  
    
I mean absolutely no disrespect to thy Master whatsoever, but thou mayest tell the Lady that if she doth hope to force some manner of reconciliation on us in such wise, it is foredoomed to be in vain. I will not to talk to him, do you hear? 

Apprentice:  
    
Alas, yes.

[they see Beren, Luthien, and Huan -- and no one else -- present in the chamber, and cross to them in the absence of any other possible advisors]

Apprentice:  
    
Erm . . . excuse me, Your Highness, but you haven't happened to see my teacher -- that would be the Lady Nienna -- about anywhere lately? 

Luthien: [rather sharp]  
    
I am afraid I haven't, sir. I have seen precious little of pity as yet from the Powers here -- though much in the way of sentimentality. 

Beren: [trying to be fair]  
    
Uh-- 

Amarie: [interested now as well as annoyed]  
    
\--"Highness"? Shall be a foreigner from the other Shore, belike? For I know all the royals in this land, and she is none of them. 

Apprentice: [graciously indicating with his arm]  
    
This is the daughter of the Lady Melian and her consort, King Elu, once called Elwe, brother of the lord of Alqualonde (who is well known to yourself,) -- the Princess Luthien of Doriath in Beleriand.

[silence]

Amarie: [staring intensely at Luthien]  
    
  
So.

[pause]

This, then, shall be the infamous maid herself?

Luthien:  
    
\--Infamous? I wouldn't know. Who are you? 

Apprentice: [quickly]  
    
I'm just the messenger. As in 'Don't shoot'. 

Amarie: [looks her up and down and sniffs]  
    
Thou dost not appear much that hath such havoc late inspired.

[turning her gaze on Beren]

And this is thy human consort. --I should have expected better there as well.

[the detached contempt slips into cold rage]

An I thought it should touch him, that mortal killer, I'd strike him across his villainous countenance, as I'd thee as well --

[back to the cool detachment]

\--but such doth merit not even my disregard.

Luthien:  
    
Don't you dare threaten him! 

Amarie: [sneering]  
    
What matter? He hath not substance nor reality in any case.

[Beren raises his brows but says nothing. Behind Huan Finrod grimaces, and reluctantly gets up from his knees to step around the Hound.]

Finrod:  
    
\--Amarie. --Is that how you see them? Or only all of us that are dead?

[silence. They stare at each other with extreme intensity -- her shock at the surprise takes a moment to fade]

Amarie: [flatly]  
    
\--What dost thou here? 

Finrod:  
    
A friend summoned me. I don't ignore such things. --Especially when it's Huan. 

Beren: [astonished]  
    
\--That's Amarie? 

Luthien:  
    
Oh, this is your old girlfriend? 

Amarie: [furious]  
    
Wretch, what hast thou said of me? 

Beren:  
    
\--This is Amarie? 

Amarie: [through her teeth]  
    
\--And am I thus made sport for a Secondborn barbarian, and a mockery for usurpers as well as renegades? 

Finrod: [iron]  
    
  
Do not speak ill of my friend.

[she snorts in disdain]

Amarie:  
    
He is dead, withal. 

Finrod:  
    
So am I. 

Amarie: [scoffing]  
    
Thou? Thou art merely affected and that right willfully, thou miscreant. 

Beren: [confused]  
    
\--Affected? --Does that mean something different here? 

Luthien:  
    
Not that I've heard.

[to Amarie]

Now you hear me, you can't insult my cousin that way -- or any other way, I won't have it.

Amarie: [without heat, very matter-of-factly]  
    
Silence, thou shameless recusant. Thou'rt naught but a savage, for all thy shadowed folk name thee princess, and the more so to roam the wildwood in garment of suspect sorcery and thine own hair--!

[Luthien is momentarily speechless. Beren winces, glances at Finrod]

Finrod:  
    
Are you thinking what I'm thinking? 

Beren:  
    
Oh yeah. -- No cover at all. 

Finrod:  
    
What an inopportune time for Huan to run off. He'd be adequate cover for us both. 

Beren:  
    
Hey -- it could be worse.

[pause]

Finrod:  
    
It was.

[Both studiously avoid each other's eyes for a moment. Futile -- each steals a look, and simultaneously bursts into uncontrollable laughter.]

Amarie: [affronted, turning her wrath on them]  
    
  
What, pray tell, dost so amuse?

[Beren and Finrod try to look serious. Attempt fails utterly.]

Finrod: [leaning on Beren's shoulder, doubled over]  
    
"Dumb Stunts of the Noldor," number I-couldn't-begin-to-guess-which, out of very-likely-infinity-- 

Beren: [being the Voice of Reason]  
    
It was a good plan, it just needed some tweaking. Huan even said so. It worked fine the second time-- 

Finrod:  
    
Right.

[wiping eyes]

\--Would you care to explain what definition of "fine" you're using?

Beren:  
    
Hey, just because I blew it afterwards doesn't change the fact that the plan worked perfectly. 

Finrod:  
    
What were we thinking? 

Beren:  
    
Hey -- you want stupid? You wouldn't think anyone could forget this, would you?

[gesturing with his right wrist]

Carcaroth charges and instead of bracing the end of it against the side of my foot and using my elbow to help stabilize it, I go to level it at him like I still had two hands and he brushes it aside like I was poking him with a cattail instead. How dumb is that?

Finrod: [scoffs]  
    
What about "leave the talking to me, I can handle him," --never mind the fact that we're talking about a being who helped build the world itself, older by comparison to me than I am to you -- no, I'll just take care of him! 

Beren:  
    
No, no, nothing on me. You gotta hear the whole story -- you're not going to believe most of it. 

Finrod:  
    
I don't believe most of it anyway. Not even the parts I was present for.

[they lose it again -- Luthien sighs and shakes her head; Amarie is staring in horrified fascination]

Amarie:  
    
  
What doth so amuse? 

Luthien: [dryly]  
    
  
Wolves. 

Amarie:  
    
  
Wolves?!?

[Luthien nods]

And thou dost think naught on't?

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
I can't laugh about it -- but I won't deny them the right. It's their battle. --Beren doesn't find anything remotely amusing in the parts of my adventures I find funny after the fact. 

Amarie:  
    
\--Madness! 

Beren: [recovering enough to argue]  
    
Yeah, but what about me blowing our cover? 

Finrod:  
    
That wasn't you, that was me. Besides, we were insane then. 

Beren:  
    
Well, I certainly was. I distinctly remember calling you "Ma" on more than one occasion. 

Finrod: [reasonably]  
    
Yes -- and I answered.

[unsteadily they endeavor to regain self-possession]

Beren: [nodding towards Amarie]  
    
Now she's going to think we're completely crazy. 

Finrod:  
    
Oh, I'm sure she already does. All of Tirion thinks so, or so I've been informed, and no doubt they think it on the seacoast and in Valmar too. Besides, she told me so when I left: this will merely confirm her opinion irrefutably. 

Amarie: [acidly]  
    
Wouldst thou leave off this affectation that I am not present, while thou dost speak of me, else cease from the same? Or shall that prove too much in the way of civilized manners for thee, Finrod? 

Beren: [sobering up]  
    
Would you rather we talk about you when you can't hear and respond, milady? Is that how they do it in civilized society? 

Finrod: [to Beren]  
    
For someone who isn't real, you make a lot of sense, you know. 

Beren:  
    
Thank you. --I try. 

Amarie: [outraged]  
    
I shall not be insulted by an -- an Aftercomer. 

Finrod: [to Beren]  
    
I thought you asked her a serious question. 

Beren:  
    
Me too. 

Amarie:  
    
Finrod, presumest not to disregard me, nor speak me past as I were but a carven figure! 

Finrod: [becoming quite focussed]  
    
But you ordered me not to speak to you -- you made that one of the conditions of ever getting the chance to ask for your forgiveness again. Are you going to hold this against me, start the yen over again, because I'm doing what you're telling me to do now? Amarie, I haven't got the strength for this. I apologized. You got angry. I'm not allowed to apologize, or to seek you out, and now apparently you're angry with me for obeying you. If you're going to play these games with me, then I'll stay here till the end of Arda and work on my songs. There's a wonderful group of musicians here, and the acoustics are excellent. What do you want me to do?

Amarie:  
    
Oh! Thou mocker! 

Luthien: [incandescent]  
    
What?!? You set him an impossible task and then you punish him for doing it? 

Amarie:  
    
Thou art the one to talk, forsooth. To name a Silmaril for thy dowry --! 

Luthien: [rolling her eyes]  
    
Not this again -- That wasn't my idea. 

Amarie:  
    
What matters that, when the end's the same? Dost thou know what he endured for thy sake, thou spoilt daughter of the twilight? 

Luthien: [mildly]  
    
Yes, I rather think I do. Better than you, by far. I was the one who discovered them, you know. And helped with the burying.

[raising her voice and pointing to her husband and kinsman]

How could I not?! I took care of Beren afterwards and listened to him talk about it -- when he could talk -- night after night after night, I washed his corpse--

Finrod: [embarrassed]  
Luthien, please-- 

Luthien:  
\--of course I know! So don't try to put your guilt at not being there on me. 

Amarie: [indignant]  
Guilt? I have no guilt. I did not rebel, wherefore I have no reason to reproach myself. 

Luthien: [ironic smile]  
Yes, well, I'm sure that's your story. 

Amarie:  
Story? 'Tis but the truth. 

Luthien: [more serious]  
    
I don't know. I look at you and I think -- if that were true she'd be far more unhappy and far less angry. It feels like something of an act to me -- keep your temper hot with us, and then you won't have to think about how differently things might have gone if you'd gone with him and help keep control of matters all along. 

Amarie: [shortly]  
    
My parents and elders forbade it. 

Luthien: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
\--And? Did they lock you up in a tower, too? 

Amarie:  
    
\--And I honor them, -- as is my filial duty.

[Finrod makes a stifled noise, but is straightfaced by the time she glares at him]

As I honor the gods and do obey them without question.

[Luthien shrugs]

Luthien:  
    
-Indeed. I suppose you have to stick to your story now. 

Amarie:  
    
Again with this talk of stories! Have thy Turned people no knowledge of the truth then, to judge all as falsehoods?

[Luthien gives her an ominous look -- no more quarter to give]

Luthien:  
    
I don't know you. I can't tell if you were truly being principled, or just too afraid of being different, or of being disapproved, or of the dangers even. Don't interrupt me! I do hope that it's the former -- I trust as much, because I know Finrod, and his judgment weighs in your favor. But the way it's all woven together is something only you know, or perhaps only the One. But you made your choice, and Finrod made his, and they were irreconcilable. End of stanza. New verse. He's back, he's said he's sorry, and he's proven it by letting your wishes command him. What is your problem? 

Amarie: [ice]  
    
My problem is no more than this -- thanks to thy meddling and willfulness, the one I should have wed died an exile and outcast, in the torments of the Enemy so that thou and this vagabond of thine could wed in despite of all graciousness and reason. 

Luthien: [offhand]  
    
Don't blame us for what you should blame yourself for. --At least no one's trying to forcibly split you up and keep you from ever seeing him again for all of eternity! 

Finrod:  
    
Er -- just to be clear on matters -- that's Luthien's viewpoint, not mine. I never said any of it was your -- ah, her \-- fault.

[to Luthien, sharply]

What was that last bit there?

[the next two exchanges overlap]

Luthien:  
    
They want Beren to leaveand me to stay and I won't have it. 

Amarie: [to Finrod]  
    
Do not presume to address me! 

Luthien: [condescending]  
    
Now, don't get angry because you're getting what you demanded. I really don't understand your problem at all. Do you love him? If yes, work to a solution. If not, give it up. Let it go -- what does it matter if he suffers or not, if he doesn't mean anything to you any more? Go find a hobby, get on with your life, why don't you. 

Amarie:  
    
Such facile japery is but to be expected from one born to the darkness. 

Luthien: [maddeningly slow emphasis]  
    
Whether I am a Dark-elf or not has no bearing on my question. Do you love him? Yes or no answer. 

Amarie: [just as patronizing]  
    
Plain thou wouldst have it -- yet it hath not such simplicity. Of course I didst love him, but-- 

Luthien: [cutting her off]  
    
\-- No. You've got it all wrong. It's and. Never "but" -- "I love you, and\--" 

Amarie: [still more patronizing]  
    
I ken not what thou wouldst convey. 

Luthien:  
    
"--I love you, and I don't want you to do this." "--I love you, and this is stupid." "--I love you, and I'm going with you." It isn't really that complicated. --Or else you didn't really love him.

[pause]

Amarie: [ice]  
    
I have neither heart nor time for folly.

[looks to where Nienna's Apprentice was standing -- and is quite obviously not now]

\--Where has that strange youth betaken himself? He was to guide me to his Master's presence.

Finrod:  
    
I'm not surprised he's made himself scarce, considering how much I'd like to do the same thing myself. 

Beren: [looking around]  
    
Huan hasn't come back yet either. 

Finrod: [dry]  
    
Well, I've always had a high opinion of his intelligence. 

Amarie:  
    
I'll not stand here and be insulted by such compare! 

Luthien:  
    
Yes, well, why don't you do that then? 

Amarie: [as if to a crazy person or a small child]  
    
Do? --What? 

Luthien:  
    
Walk away, since you won't stand for it.

[Amarie gives a blazing look towards Finrod, who is wearing a suspiciously innocent expression]

Amarie: [softly]  
    
And so thou'lt stand by and see me mocked, even? I'll go, then, and find the Lady myself and bring her my plaint, if I must walk these Halls till even.

[she turns abruptly and strides away towards the corridor without another word or backwards look]

Finrod: [raising his voice]  
    
If she would listen to me, I would tell her that it might not work. Distance and direction aren't exactly the same here as they are Outside.

[she still does not look or pause, though there is a visible if controlled reaction in the set of her shoulders and lifted chin. After she is no longer visible from the doorway the place seems a lot larger and dimmer. Finrod gives a sigh half of relief, half of regret, as Luthien moves to him and puts her arm around his shoulders in a consoling gesture.]

Finrod:  
    
That could have gone much worse. 

Luthien: [tight]  
    
I don't see how. 

Finrod:  
    
For a moment there I thought she might try to hit me again.

[rubs his jaw reminiscently]

For someone with no combat training who, quote, disapproves of violence, unquote, she did an excellent job of knocking me part-way across the table before we left.

[pulling himself together -- as if the last few minutes hadn't happened at all:]

You were going to fill in the details omitted from the condensed version, and I was going to find us somewhere to sit. I suppose -- I wonder what the purpose of it is? -- that quaint little informal garden might serve the purpose.

[he takes their hands as though to lead them to the hill, but this is interrupted by the loud entrance of Huan, dashing in as if in pursuit of an animal -- he skids to a stop just short of Finrod and begins to vigorously lavish canine attention on him]

Beren:  
    
Hey! Hey! Easy! You're gonna knock someone over. 

Finrod: [laughing]  
    
\--Are you going to do this every time you see me, old Hound? 

Luthien:  
    
Huan, sit!

[Huan does so, grinning]

Vaire: [stern]  
    
Finarfinion. --What are you doing here?

[she approaches from the doorway; Finrod bows.]

Finrod:  
    
Conversing with my cousin and my friends, my Lady. 

Vaire: [darkly]  
    
That had better be all.

[to Luthien -- gently]

What seems to be the difficulty, dear?

[she notices the Hill -- to Finrod:]

What is that?!?

Finrod: [pleasantly]  
    
Amazing, isn't it? It seems to be the real thing. I'm sure the grass is longer than it was a little while ago. 

Vaire: [almost speechless]  
    
I -- said -- 

Finrod:  
    
And I haven't. It was already there when I came in. 

Luthien:  
    
Tulkas' wife put it there. 

Vaire:  
    
Oh.

[pause -- shaking her head:]

I wonder why.

[to Luthien]

Would you please come and sit down with us so that we can get this situation taken care of?

Luthien: [lifting her hands]  
    
What part of "not without Beren" is so hard to understand? Should I set it to a melody and sing it instead? 

Vaire:  
    
Child, please don't be difficult. 

Luthien:  
    
Difficult? Believe me, I haven't even started being difficult.

[she is getting the combat look again]

Finrod: [murmuring]  
    
\--Tact, cousin, tact. 

Luthien:  
    
I tried that. It hasn't worked at all to date.

[Beren turns her towards him]

Beren: [quietly but earnest]  
    
  
Tinuviel. --Don't let them make you crazy. We're together now. We can get through this. If they're willing to talk, the situation isn't hopeless. Not all concessions are bad ideas. Go with the Lady -- she said they want to hear you. That's a good thing, right? 

Finrod:  
    
  
    
You didn't marry a fool, Luthien.

[after a moment she sighs and nods, though her expression is still very hard. Putting her arms around Beren's neck:]

Luthien: [softly]  
    
Stay close to him, don't go wandering about on your own, don't let anyone talk you into agreeing to anything, even if it seems harmless this time, --don't even talk to strangers if you can avoid it, and wait here for me. I'm going to sort this nonsense out once and for all.

[she kisses him briefly and reassuringly]

Beren:  
    
But -- these are your mother's people, in a way, really -- they wouldn't do anything to us, would they? They're kind of family, aren't they? 

Luthien:  
    
  
Beren. --Listen to what you just said.

[pause]

Beren: [smiles wryly]  
    
Point taken. 

Luthien: [to Huan]  
    
Will you stay here and help look after Beren? 

Beren: [looking at the ceiling]  
    
I tried that once.

[Huan wags his tail twice]

Finrod:  
    
Don't worry, we'll take care of him. 

Luthien:  
    
I know.

[she starts to follow, then turns back and gives Beren a quick intense kiss, and then darts to hug Finrod again before reluctantly accompanying Vaire. The Weaver gives Finrod a frown, seeming about to say something, but changes her mind. The three of them are left alone. There is a brief silence, during which Huan melts away into the shadows again; while the other two look at each other uncertainly in a renewal of shyness.]

Finrod:  
    
How are you -- honestly?

[pause]

Beren:  
    
It's not as bad as it has been.

[Finrod sighs, unsurprised]

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to depress you--

Finrod: [very emphatically]  
    
  
Beren. Do not, I beg you most fervently, if you have any compassion whatsoever, apologize for having been killed. --Unless it really is your wish to leave me still more depressed.

[pause]

Beren: [quieter]  
    
All right.

[pause]

Finrod: [forced briskness]  
    
Where's Huan? He seems to have gone off again. 

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
That's what I said. It's like you said, back when -- Huan's his own dog, and no mistake.

[almost smiling]

And he's our dog, too.

[smile fading]

He's always right, even when I've disagreed with him, so he's probably doing something to help me again, even though he shouldn't.

Finrod:  
    
Why shouldn't he? 

Beren:  
    
Because I don't deserve it. 

Finrod:  
    
  
Beren\-- 

Beren: [changing subject]  
    
Sir -- how are you? Are -- are you well? Are you -- treated well? I can't really tell anything about what it's like here -- it's too big, or something and it's just sort of strange and blurry -- and I can't tell much about the people, there's been some shouting, but no one's shoved any spears or other pointed objects in my face yet or threatened to chain me up, so so far I'm not complaining. 

Finrod:  
    
No. No chains, here. It's -- very peaceful. A trifle dull, perhaps, but -- not unpleasant. Not for me, at least. Plenty of time to think, which some people find trying, but I don't mind it. And no responsibilities, which is an immense relief. I'd not expected that . . . I had no idea how much I was attempting to keep under control these last few decades, until I no longer had to do so. 

Beren:  
    
I'm-- 

Finrod: [raising his hand abruptly]  
    
No apologies for that, either.

[this leaves Beren with nothing to say for the moment]

I really don't understand why you've had so much awful luck. It can't be explained merely by your own actions. There does seem to be something to that saying, "Circumstances conspired against them."

Beren:  
    
Mm.

[giving him an uncertain glance]

You know something? I just realized -- we're related now. By marriage at least.

[Finrod looks taken aback]

Finrod: [sounding dismayed]  
    
Oh. You're right. I'd forgotten about that as well. Oh dear.

[sighing]

You don't deserve that on top of everything that's already happened. There's been far too much chaos and madness in your life already.

Beren:  
    
Uh-- 

Finrod: [changing subject himself]  
    
So that's what the Loom looks like when it's off. --Hm.

[he looks at it with a considering expression]

I wonder if . . .

[trailing off]

Beren:  
    
Um -- not to sound critical or anything, but -- I always thought there was actual string involved, somehow. 

Finrod: [nods]  
    
So did I.

[Beren looks surprised]

\--What? I hadn't seen it either.

Beren:  
    
Oh. 

Finrod:  
    
I never tried to mislead your family -- 

Beren: [earnestly]  
    
No, no -- I wasn't saying you did -- it could have been us, too, messing things up, or even just me not paying attention. 

Finrod: [just as earnest]  
    
Please, don't denigrate yourself. I was saying, I didn't misrepresent deliberately -- but there were many, many things which I didn't understand, or of which I have amuch better understanding now. Some of my explanations were in retrospect too facile, oversimplified, or at least open to misunderstanding. Especially about things having to do with the Halls. And I'm lecturing again, aren't I? 

Beren: [softly]  
    
It's all right -- I don't mind.

[nods towards the Loom]

She made it do something, right before you two came in, but I don't know how she did it.

[Finrod gives him a quick look]

Finrod:  
    
You say that as though you're expecting me to start tinkering with it.

[pause]

Beren:  
    
You mean you're not?

[they share a somewhat hesitant grin; Finrod moves as though about to put a hand on Beren's shoulder, but doesn't quite know if he ought -- the awkwardness of their reunion is cut short by a familiar voice from the doorway:]

Captain:  
    
  
There you are, Sir.

[Beren instinctively moves behind Finrod, trying to vanish as the Captain comes up]

\--Are we supposed to be back here? I'm sorry, I still haven't been able to establish exactly what's all the ruckus--

[Finrod steps back, saying nothing]

\--Beren?!? [he grabs Beren, dragging him practically off his feet into a bear-hug -- setting him down, catches his shoulders and gives him a little shake, staring at him, then hugs him again]

Sweet Cuivienen, lad -- we thought we'd lost you forever.

[letting him go, but still keeping an arm around his shoulders, --to Finrod:]

Sir, it's Beren\--

[--then laughs at himself]

Finrod: [smiling]  
    
I know. As, apparently, do most of the greater and lesser Powers in this place. 

Captain:  
    
You mean all this trouble's over him? 

Beren: [hoarse]  
    
\--Surprised? 

Finrod:  
    
Yes, for once it's actually not us. 

Captain: [troubled look]  
    
Only -- this means--

[looking at Finrod:]

\--how long has it been, Sir?

Finrod: [meaningfully]  
    
Not long enough. 

Beren:  
    
About half a year. A little more. 

Captain: [very grim]  
    
What happened? 

Beren:  
    
A -- lot of things.

[he is barely managing to control his emotions]

Captain:  
    
Beren -- and what of your lady--? 

Beren:  
    
She--

[he cannot continue]

Finrod:  
    
My cousin's pulling strings with the Powers to keep Beren from being sent Beyond. They, of course, think that they are convincing her to act in their best interests by letting him go. Which of them has the correct understanding of the situation has yet to be determined -- it's all very much in flux. I'm still catching up with the background, but the present difficulty seems clear enough. 

Captain: [frowning]  
    
Resolvable, Sire? 

Finrod: [edged smile]  
    
If I have any say in it, yes. We'll need -- oh, good.

[The Steward enters a second after he finishes speaking, and has nearly crossed the floor to them before he does a double take at the third member of the trio. After a moment's blank stare at Beren, he looks to the other two and then, seemingly accepting without further question, lets his gaze travel back to the Man.]

Steward: [formal]  
    
My lord Barahirion.

[he bows, very correctly]

Beren:  
    
Sir --

[he moves forward, from under the Captain's hand, and then halts, looking helplessly at the other Elf-lord]

Steward:  
    
I confess myself at a loss for words. 

Beren:  
    
\--Sir, I'm so sorry -- I-- 

Steward:  
    
Please -- do not distress yourself upon my account. 

Beren: [choked]  
    
\--I saw your bones. 

Steward: [coolly]  
    
That is all in the past.

[noticing, frowns -- in a different tone]

What happened--

[Before he can finish asking the question, the entrance of the rest of the Ten, noisily accompanied by Huan, interrupts him.]

First Guard:  
    
Milords, look who's playing sheepdog -- Beren!?!

[At once Beren is surrounded by them and mobbed enthusiastically by eight Elven- warriors' shades, all trying to slap him on the back, fling their arms around his shoulders, ruffle his hair and embrace him like a long-lost sibling. He is completely overcome and gives up even trying to speak, simply accepting their welcome. Finrod looks on, wearing a rather rueful smile.]

Captain: [gently amused]  
    
Now then, now then, take turns, don't throttle the Beoring all at once.

[they spread out, abashed, but still fiercely possessive, dividing demonstrations of affection between Beren and Huan.]

Warrior: [grinning]  
    
I suppose that means it's all right if we do it singly, then -- Beren, what happened to your hand? 

Beren: [heavily]  
    
It's a long story. 

Warrior:  
    
\--That bad?

[Beren gives a wry grimace, not quite a smile]

Second Guard: [concerned]  
    
Why are you still here? Are you in trouble again? 

Beren:  
    
Er--

[the Soldier is looking around with interest at the Hall and its decoration, or lack thereof]

Soldier: [to the elder of the two subordinate Rangers]  
    
Well, that answers that. It's as boring here as it is everywhere else. They really like it that way -- it isn't for some therapeutic reason. Pay up.

[the Ranger sighs and hands over a brooch, manifesting it as he does]

Ranger:  
    
I like the little ridge though, -- even if it doesn't really seem to fit with the rest of the decor. 

Beren:  
    
She made that. 

Steward: [frowning]  
    
Who? Lady Vaire? 

Beren:  
    
No. Her \-- um, the Lady of Summer, the Bride. 

Captain:  
    
Oh, yes, that makes sense. The roses especially -- they look like her style. 

Steward:  
    
\--Nessa was here? 

Beren:  
    
And Lord Astaldo -- he -- he was-- 

Captain: [knowingly]  
    
They're a bit much to take, either one of them. 

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but -- actually, he was really nice. They both were. Just -- a little -- 

Captain:  
    
\--Overpowering?

[Beren nods]

Captain:  
    
I know. They're wonderful people, but very little sense of restraint. If you ever go to one of their parties, don't ever let Tulkas talk you into a drinking contest. --Or Nessa, for that matter. 

Guard:  
    
That girl who works for them, who is she, -- Measse, that's it -- did a pretty good job of drinking you under the table back in the day, sir. 

Captain: [mock indignation]  
    
And how would you know but by hearsay, eh? You were long since past consciousness, as I recall. 

Beren: [eyes widening]  
    
That's not the -- the same Measse you ask that you'll come home at the end of a fight?

[silence]

Youngest Ranger: [whispering]  
    
I'm not used to this either. 

Finrod: [briskly]  
    
All right then, everyone! Catch up later -- we have work to do.

[he gestures for the Steward and the Captain to draw near, while the rest hang about, beginning to drift off and sightsee around the staff area of the Halls.]

I want all of you to stay here and guard Beren -- I've promised Luthien I'd look after him for her. Will you make sure nothing happens to him while I go and see a few people who might be helpful?

Captain:  
    
You know you've no need to ask that. 

Finrod: [quick smile]  
    
I know. --But it's more polite that way. 

Soldier: [overhearing]  
    
Ah, Sir, -- what could happen to him here? 

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
I've neither idea nor the wish to find out. 

Captain: [with a meaningful look]  
    
  
All of us, Sire? 

Finrod:  
    
I'd feel better that way. 

Steward:  
    
Are you certain that's wise, my lord? 

Finrod: [edged]  
    
I can take care of myself. There's no trouble here that I can't handle very well on my own. 

Captain: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
Shouldn't that be, --none that you haven't handled as of yet?

[Beren, with a worried expression, puts his hand on Finrod's arm]

Beren:  
    
Sir, I don't want you to get in any trouble because of me. 

Finrod:  
    
It won't be because of you. 

Beren: [urgent]  
    
But if you're trying to find help for me and Luthien, then it would be. I don't want to owe you any more, Sir. I -- I couldn't live with that.

[pause]

I mean . . .

Finrod:  
    
Beren, you're not in my debt: I owed your father my life. 

Beren:  
    
But my father didn't get killed saving your life! 

Finrod: [getting exasperated]  
    
You know that's irrelevant. Do you think that the lives of your companions were worth less than your own or your families? No. You don't. And neither do I. Lots of people did get killed at Serech. You're the last Beoring, you get to collect on it, like it or not. 

Captain: [rolling his eyes]  
    
Not this again!

[the Soldier has still been standing nearby, listening with concern]

Soldier: [aside, to the Captain]  
    
What's going on, Sir? 

Captain:  
    
It's the "Endless Battle." You know -- The Argument. 

Soldier:  
    
No, I don't know. What about? 

Captain:  
    
That's right -- you were first, that was after your time. They're arguing over whose fault it is more. 

Soldier: [bemused]  
    
Oh. But-- 

Captain:  
    
Not what you're thinking, lad -- the other way round. 

Warrior: [interrupting]  
    
Where are they up to? 

Captain: [listening]  
    
Going over the mountains west, as opposed to what we actually did and what might or might not have happened in various hypothetical situations which did not, obviously, occur. 

Warrior: [heartfelt]  
    
  
Damn. They're just getting started, then. 

Third Guard:  
    
What are we up to now? Anyone remember the tally? 

Ranger:  
    
I lost count after twelve-score. 

Soldier:  
    
\--But why are they arguing? 

Captain: [snorts]  
    
What, they need a reason to claim responsibility for every earthly mishap? Remember who you're talking about: "I ought to have Seen and single-handedly prevented the Kinslaying," on the one hand, against, "If only I'd been killed at Aeluin everything in the world would be fine." 

Steward:  
    
It was at four hundred eighty, and eleven, when I was taken. Or one, depending on whether you subscribe to the view that it's all actually one long Argument with breaks. I was counting every time they repeated an exchange as a new engagement. 

First Guard:  
    
There were times when I could have killed the both of them myself, or myself, just to get away from it. 

Ranger: [quietly]  
    
It was worse when they stopped, though.

[sighs and nods of agreement from the final veterans]

Beren:  
    
But you asked me my opinion about that and I agreed it was risky-- 

Finrod: [cutting him off]  
    
You know you didn't feel competent to contradict me, because of your youth, regardless of the fact that in terms of actual field experience of recent date-- 

Steward: [looking up at the vaulting, fervently]  
    
Dear sweet Lady, make them stop! 

Ranger:  
    
That doesn't work here either, sir. I don't think anything can. 

Youngest Ranger: [muttering]  
    
\--That's because they're both swarn. 

Finrod:  
    
Beren, I'm the eldest, I was in command, I should have known better-- 

Captain:  
    
Great Mother of Spiders, no, no, NO!!! I am not listening to this for another hundred-forty-three years, can you imagine?! 

Steward:  
    
  
Most unfortunately -- yes. 

Beren:  
    
But I shouldn't have just-- 

Captain:  
    
That's it, no more, I've had it --

[shouting]

Hey! You two! Would you stop it? We already know how this goes, we don't need to hear it again!

"--It's my fault, I shouldn't have involved anyone else in the first place."

"--No, it was my decision to get involved, not yours."

"--But you had to help me, you didn't have a choice."

"--You only had authority over me because I gave it you to begin with. Besides, I was in charge of the entire operation, therefore any and all responsibility is solely mine."

"--There wouldn't have been any operation if I hadn't started it all, so it is really my fault."

[normal tone]

\--Did I cover everything?

Warrior:  
    
You forgot "But your entire civilization was collateral damage in our war--" 

Fourth Guard:  
    
\--and "but we wouldn't have had a civilization without you--" 

Steward:  
    
But otherwise I think you touched upon all the salient points with admirable succinctness. I couldn't have done it better. 

Youngest Ranger:  
    
You did the voices very well, too, sir.

[absolute silence. Finrod and Beren look at each other, guiltily. Both of them start to say something, several times, and can't.]

Steward: [amazed]  
    
\--Holy Stars. It actually worked. 

Captain: [bland]  
    
Of course, if you absolutely insist, we could always test out the Ered Wethrin hypothesis the way we did with the Bragollach. 

Finrod:  
    
Ahem. I think -- I should go and see -- about doing -- what it was I was going to do. Now. --Excuse me.

[he turns and leaves abruptly]

Fourth Guard:  
    
\--Did we go too far? 

Beren: [shaking head]  
    
No, he just couldn't keep a straight face much longer and we already got our ears ripped good by Amarie for inappropriate behavior once this . . . well, already.

[The mention of Amarie's name brings varied and strong reactions]

Steward:  
    
Amarie? 

Captain:  
    
She's here? --What happened? 

Warrior:  
    
We're doomed. She's absolutely ruthless. 

Steward:  
    
  
Amarie? 

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Was there an accident? 

Second Guard:  
    
There aren't accidents here. 

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Do you mean "here" here, or "here" as in Aman?

 

Second Guard:  
    
Aman "here." Besides, she's Vanyar, what would she need to learn here? 

Steward:  
    
The Lady Amarie? You're sure? 

Beren:  
    
Er, tall, blonde, and answering to the name of "Amarie" --? 

Captain:  
    
Hard to think who else it would be. --Don't worry, even if she is here, I imagine she's still against violence.

[the Steward gives him an annoyed Look]

\--Not that that can't be conveniently forgotten. Again.

Beren:  
    
Not -- here like us. Just -- here. 

Warrior:  
    
  
How? 

Beren: [exasperated]  
    
  
I don't know. All I know is that she didn't want to be here and she kind of laid down the law to the guy who brought her here that she wasn't interested in talking to Finrod and then spent a long time yelling at him anyway. The King, not the other guy. --And us. And then she was losing to Tinuviel so she went off in a huff to complain to whoever it was who sent for her. If anyone said who it was I missed it.

[pause]

Steward:  
    
Ah. That's interesting. 

Captain:  
    
  
Very interesting. 

Steward:  
    
Bets? 

Captain: [snorts]  
    
\--No! You cheat. 

Steward: [haughty]  
    
Employing the Sight is not cheating if all other parties are well aware that one possesses it. Besides, it's neither guaranteed nor infallible. 

Soldier:  
    
Then how come you always win, sir? 

Steward: [austere]  
    
  
Luck.

[several of the Ten exchange significant Looks]

Beren:  
    
Okay, why are you worried about people ambushing him? Who would do that, and why? --And how? 

Captain:  
    
It's a long story -- not quite so long as Noldolante, however -- but I suppose that technically we did start it, at the very beginning-- 

Steward:  
    
\--Not just technically-- 

Captain:  
    
\--by pounding the hell out of a Feanorian or two followed by lessons in Why Pell-work Is Not Enough Nor Will You Encounter The Rules Of Formal Combat In The Wild, followed in turn by -- the worst cut of all -- apologies. 

Beren:  
    
But why were you guys beating up Feanor's partisans? Or was there a reason? 

Ranger: [wryly]  
    
There's always a reason. Even if it's just the appellation "House Feanor."

 

Captain:  
    
Oh, there was an unpleasant fellow who likes to hang about the High King and act as though he's a notable at court again -- one of quite a few, but this chap has the gift for getting on one's nerves like you wouldn't believe. He was one of their top Elves back when Maedhros was still High King, and he never stops letting people know how he was the Second Casualty in the War. Apparently we're all supposed to accept his assumption that Grey and Green losses don't count.

[snorts]

Why he's so proud of being too dumb to figure out it was an ambush in advance -- particularly since they were planning on it themselves, and surely an evil god with centuries' practice at deceit and betrayal ought to be able to think of such a thing himself -- and of not succeeding in covering his lord's retreat and thus making his death count for something, I have yet to figure out. But there you have it. At any rate, we hadn't been here very long -- no idea what that would be in the Outside, I'm afraid, but it didn't seem very long -- when he turned up while our lord was relating our misadventures to his uncle and made so bold as to provide unasked-for commentary. He found the story most diverting.

Beren: [lethally cold]  
    
He was making fun of the King? --And you all? 

Captain: [nods]  
    
I warned him not to make light of what he didn't understand, as Himself was being too dignified to pay attention to such offensive behavior. I did so, in no uncertain terms. --He laughed again. 

Beren:  
    
Then what happened? 

Captain:  
    
He discovered that the imagined experience of being picked up by the collar and slammed repeatedly against a stone wall was nearly as unpleasant as the actuality. 

Soldier:  
    
Then we laughed. 

Captain:  
    
Then he complained bitterly to the High King, who found it tiresome, until it was suggested -- I'm sure you can guess by whom -- that he issue a challenge and endeavor to satisfy his honor in the traditional way. After some balking about whether or not such a thing would be possible, and this being decisively demonstrated -- again by the King -- he did so. 

Beren:  
    
And? 

Captain:  
    
I was still quite angry. --He should have known that His Majesty wasn't making the suggestion out of a pure disinterested sense of fair play -- but if he hadn't the brains to be wary of taking any free advice from someone he'd just been insulting, that's hardly our responsibility, now. 

Ranger:  
    
It was very funny.

 

Steward: [sighing]  
    
Since then the situation has somewhat escalated, as might have been expected, though perhaps not to the scale that has from time to time been reached.

 

Beren:  
    
  
That's why you are in -- in trouble all the time? You're fighting with the guys from House Feanor? 

Captain:  
    
Well, it isn't all the time. 

First Guard:  
    
And we certainly aren't the only ones. 

Soldier:  
    
Replace "fighting with" with "polishing the floor with" and you'll be closer. 

Warrior:  
    
I still think we'd have been all right if we had left the walls alone. 

Captain:  
    
No, because someone would still have complained until the rafters rang due to the fact that every single time time we kicked their sorry hindquarters back to Himring, except for the one time we did "Under Stars" and tossed them into the sea. 

Steward:  
    
That, I think, was the unforgivable insult. 

Captain:  
    
Yes, well, you saying afterwards that Dagor-nuin-Giliad was a case history in basic strategy and every recruit these days studied the tactical errors made by Feanor before learning how to manage a spear and a horse at the same time didn't exactly help. 

Steward: [sharply]  
    
It's no more than the truth. 

Captain:  
    
It was more the tone of voice. Besides, it's just as true that we've beat them roundly on every occasion. Hence the sneak attacks and the complaints. 

Warrior:  
    
But if we hadn't moved the walls, Lady Vaire wouldn't have gotten involved. 

Steward:  
    
I do not recommend wagering anything on that unproveable possibility. 

Beren:  
    
I'm sorry, but -- this isn't making any sense. 

Captain:  
    
It's a long story.

[pause]

Beren: [wry]  
    
As long as the Return of the Noldor? 

Captain: [ironic]  
    
Not quite.

[from this point, with that routine, in spite of recurring guilt attacks, any lingering reserve on Beren's part is gone -- he settles back into their old familiar cameraderie]

Beren:  
    
Okay, so what happened? --Is happening? Whichever. 

Captain:  
    
Ever since the Dagor Bragollach, various parties here have been fighting over how it might have gone differently. The most obstreperous of the lot were those who went West at the "Glorious Battle", because they had the experience of winning easily at the "Battle-under-Stars", the first one fought after the Return.  



	9. Scene II - part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Beren:  
    
Yeah, I remember, that's the one we used to play in the door-yard on moonless nights. --Boy, did we get in trouble for beating on the "Gates" of "Angband" with sticks when we did the Coming of Fingolfin. Huh.  
  
[he shakes his head in bemusement at it all.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Hold onto that thought, as you'd say. --When I say "fighting," I mean endless discussions and arguments, the sort that make a council back home look as quick as an exchange of hand-signals. The Old Guard was convinced that If Only They'd Been There, the Battle would never have been lost, and we Young Whelps were obviously incompetent and/or cowards to flee the field.  
  

Ranger:  
    
As you'd expect, that didn't go over well with those who actually were there.  
  

Warrior:  
    
But until we showed up they'd never done anything but talk about it. At nauseating length, I might add.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then after listening to the debate cycle round twelve or fourteen times, he comes up and says, "Why don't you put your talk to the test and prove that you could have done it better?" Not in those exact words, of course, but you get the picture. And they all shut up for a bit, until they started jeering at him about how it wasn't feasible, and he said, "Well, perhaps not for you, by yourselves," and they said, "What, you could?" and he said nothing, and manifested a quarter-size copy of Glaurung in the middle of the hall. And some lava for him to play in.  
  
[grinning]  
  
After everyone had sorted themselves out, minus those who didn't feel like it just at the moment, and the shouting and the recriminations had died down to a dull roar, he asks, "Well, why didn't you shoot him?" to some of the more obnoxious of the old-timers, and then added, "That's what cousin Fingon did when the Worm was that small," and everything split into an uproar again with the dividing lines not being House Feanor and Everyone Else for once, but Those Who Were There and Those Who Weren't. And the upshot was a challenge to refight it, as much as possible like the real thing, with strict rules governing what could be done and not done, such as having to stay dead if killed, or your horse likewise if mounted, and not being able to make yourself unlimited arrows, but having to glean them off the field, or to mindspeak farther than you could alive. Making sense yet?  
  

Beren:  
    
No. I think you're saying you somehow pretended to fight the Sudden Flame amongst yourselves in the Halls, like us when we were kids playing Lords of the West versus Morgoth. But I don't understand where the horses are coming from and the arrows and how you can be killed if you're already dead. --Unless you mean you have to stay down like when you get "killed" with a stick that's supposed to be a famous sword.  
  

Second Guard: [encouraging]  
    
That's right. It's exactly the same thing, only instead of pretending we had horses and spears, we -- er --  
  

Steward: [raising his eyebrows]  
    
\--Pretended we had horses and spears.  
  

Beren:  
    
But how would it work? And it doesn't seem like you could convince them, because they would still say, well, yes, but that's you, not Orcs, if you won. And what about the Balrogs and the fire? And anyway if you did make an illusion of lava, it still isn't the same because first of all, it isn't hot if it's an illusion, right? and second, the terrain -- the floor is flat, not hills and stuff, and that makes a huge difference.  
  

Soldier: [wistfully]  
    
We should have had you helping plan it. That would have been fun.  
  

Captain:  
    
As to your first objection, is it hot \-- that depends on how convincing an illusion it is. Which in turn depends equally on how much the artist knows about the subject, and how convincingly then chooses to hold it. Not everyone is willing to think about such things in all their painful details. As to the second -- that's what the debate about the walls concerns. Though it was actually the floor as well as the walls.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
Why did King Finrod move the walls? --And the floor?  
  

First Guard: [grinning]  
    
My, he's quick.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--And, by the way, how?  
  

Captain:  
    
Can't answer the how for you, I'm afraid -- I can't do it myself at all. You'll have to consult these young punks on that matter --  
  
[gestures towards the Youngest Ranger and the Soldier]  
  
\--they're the best of us, after His Majesty. I find the stuff far too convincingly solid to convince myself that since one works stone, or anything for that matter, with one's mind equally as much as with one's body, with sufficient concentration and understanding one ought to be able to reshape matter regardless of physical contact. "After all," as he said, "if Lady Vaire can do it, I should be able to."  
  
[silence -- suddenly Beren chuckles, and instantly suppresses it]  
  
Oh yes. Why's a lot easier -- we needed a very large open space to start with -- we didn't do it to full scale, exactly, we had to cheat a little, but it was -- big. And to address that terrain problem you noted.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [stunned]  
    
Goddess of mercy . . . you turned the Halls of Mandos into Ard-galen?!  
  

Ranger: [shrugging]  
    
Not all the Halls, just some.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
A little part.  
  

Soldier:  
    
A good bit of it was illusion too -- Thangorodrim, for instance, was just the gates and a shell for the lower portion, since no one actually got inside it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Good grief! -- and they let you get away with it?  
  

Captain:  
    
For a while. Eventually they noticed and we had to stop. Which might not have happened if certain people hadn't gone and complained bloody murder about it. It really did have to do with the walls, though.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--And the fact that killing each other, even thus in seeming only, offended the Powers' sense of fitting behaviour within these walls.  
  

Warrior: [sighing]  
    
I'm not sure that what the King said to her was the most tactful thing to say, either. Even if it was true.  
  

Beren:  
    
Do I really want to know what it was?  
  

Steward:  
    
His Majesty was somewhat aggrieved due to the fact that walls had been being reconfigured for some time prior to the reenactment, as part of his experiments, and that he assumed the Lady of the Halls was quite aware of it all along, it not occurring to any of us that she should not be.  
  

Warrior:  
    
There was that business with the missing gallery, too, Sir.  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
There was.  
  
[Beren gives him a cautious look]  
  
Lady Vaire ordered us to remove all traces of alterations throughout the Halls. One of the galleries which was removed was apparently one which she herself had shaped as part of an expansion plan. I say "apparently", because it isn't certain: King Felagund maintains that the one which was his attempt at duplicating it was on the opposite side of the corridor, and that her Ladyship has gotten confused about which was which. None of the rest of us is certain. --They argue about this from time to time, to no certain resolution.  
  

Beren:  
    
. . .  
  

Captain:  
    
Look, this is tiresome, standing around. Why don't we make use of the hill that Nessa's kindly left for us and make ourselves comfortable.  
  

Steward: [looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head]  
    
You would think that a pile of dirt and weeds looked comfortable.  
  

Captain:  
    
Weeds! Those are flowers, Edrahil -- can't you tell the difference? And by comparison to a stone floor -- most definitely, wouldn't you agree?  
  

Steward: [ignoring him]  
    
It seems to be rapidly becoming overgrown with wild roses. Not cultivars, and therefore weeds. And very likely with their natural thorns, and thus not comfortable.  
  

Beren: [trying to interrupt]  
    
Sirs--  
  

Youngest Ranger: [smiling wryly]  
    
Don't waste the effort, Beren.  
  
[he puts an arm over Beren's shoulders and leads the way]  
  
We'll just have to make sure we take the grassy bits and leave the thorns for Lord Edrahil so he'll have something to complain about.  
  

Steward: [to the world at large]  
    
\--Young people these days.  
  

Beren: [as everyone settles down on the Hill]  
    
So . . . who played us?  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
We didn't actually do our bit, because it wasn't important in terms of the overall outcome.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--That is to say, all that happened in terms of the Bragollach was that we never made it to the real front with any reinforcements, so Serech was irrelevant in that sense.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh . . . okay. So what did you do?  
  

Captain:  
    
Headed various units under the the King's command.  
  

Beren:  
    
Who was he? --The High King?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, his uncle was quite happy to take part.  
  

Beren:  
    
Er . . . I meant the current High King.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh. No, he took the most difficult part. They didn't actually refight the Duel, since it would have been a draw most likely, but the exercise ended when Fingolfin made it to the Gates. --What's wrong?  
  

Beren:  
    
You mean -- he --  
  
[breaks off, wide-eyed]  
  

Captain:  
    
Of course. No one else has studied the War in such depth and in such a technical way, interviewing survivors -- and veterans -- of as many parts of the field as possible. Who better to play the Arranger of Battles?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [suspiciously bland tone]  
    
Somehow I don't think that would have been seen as appropriate either.  
  

Captain:  
    
I don't think it helped, no. The resentment over the Bragollach had mostly died down, though, before the Feanorians started things back up again.  
  

Beren:  
    
Why? I mean, other than being House Feanor, what's the reason?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Isn't that reason enough?  
  

Steward: [to the Captain]  
    
There would be considerably less hostilities did you refrain from provoking them.  
  

Captain: [superior tone]  
    
I have never yet drawn first.  
  

Steward:  
    
No, but you needn't respond every time.  
  

Captain: [snorts indignantly]  
    
What, I should stand there and let them hack at me without defending myself?  
  

Steward:  
    
I meant the verbal provocation that invariably results in them drawing upon you.  
  

Captain:  
    
If they refuse to accept that they are totally outclassed and persist in challenging either with wits or weapons, I see no reason to spare them a lesson. Better they harry me than the King. For everyone -- I'm actually being kind to them, you see.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm guessing I really don't want to know the story, but -- why are they going after him? You'd think they'd be ashamed to.  
  

Captain:  
    
Partly a simmering resentment over the fact that none of them are as good as he--  
  

Steward:  
    
\--the remainder, resentment over his being proven right on a matter of speculative discussion.  
  

Captain:  
    
Namely, the debate over whether or not -- as House Feanor affects to hold, or did -- the wordsof the Ban were metaphorical, or literal, as our lord argued. The claim that we were never going to be allowed out of here and "long" was a euphemism for "never" -- which was used as the justification for much resentment and obduracy -- being quite thoroughly disproven by the amnesty granted Himself. For a while there it got completely out of hand, but after the last rout I think they've given it up, at least for a while. Sooner or later some idiot's going to --  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
Wait -- wait a second. You're telling me that he doesn't have to stay here?  
  
[silence]  
  
I don't understand.  
  

First Guard: [wry grin]  
    
Long story.  
  

Steward: [dry]  
    
Not that long.  
  

Beren:  
    
But --  
  
[shaking his head in frustration]  
  
Explanation? --Please?  
  

Steward:  
    
His Majesty has personal reasons for not accepting.  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
\--You.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, actually, not at all. That was part of the haggling-over-terms that gave Lord Namo such headaches.  
  

Steward:  
    
I would not call it "haggling" --  
  

Captain:  
    
Really? Then what would you call it?  
  
[the Steward gives him a cool Look]  
  
Haggling, I say, as per the grounds for the offer being equally applicable to all of us.   
  

Steward:  
    
Essentially, the argument went as follows: seeing that our lord was guiltless in the matter of the Kinslaying, and had departed Aman out of a sense of responsibility towards the rest of us, not for his own ambitions, and in consideration of his generosity and valor in Beleriand -- and it is possible, though these are mere deductions based on certain unguarded remarks, there was also a certain measure of pressure by parental forces -- there should be no real reason to continue to hold him here, and that mitigation of sentence was in order. To this King Finrod countered that we were no less free of guilt where Alqualonde was concerned, and that if he were to be released early on this count, and the deeds and sufferings that had transpired on the further shore, -- then we too should be granted the same. --Or he would not accept it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sounds like haggling to me.  
  

Steward: [as if he hadn't spoken]  
    
Pursuant to which there was considerable debate, amongst the Powers, and while we awaited the final decision, word came in reply to the King's messenger that Lady Amarie refused to accept his apology and forbade him to contact her again for a full Great Year.  
  

Captain:  
    
At that point Himself says, "Never mind about me," just when he'd won his concessions -- the wording of it was a tremendous battle, since he wouldn't apologize for thoughts he never held nor for actions he considered justified, either -- and that miffed the Lord and Lady no end.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
Did they withdraw the offer?  
  

Steward:  
    
Of course not.  
  

Beren:  
    
But you're still here.  
  
[silence]  
  

Steward: [gravely]  
    
Would you have taken it?  
  

Captain: [quickly]  
    
A yen isn't very long to us, Beren.  
  
[comprehending, Beren looks away, intensely embarrassed]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that--  
  

Fourth Guard: [comfortingly]  
    
It's all right, everyone thinks we're raving lunatics.  
  

Beren:   
    
I can't believe I asked that--  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren. We know you wouldn't have taken it under the circumstances. We know you don't think we'd leave him. Stop worrying over such an insignificant thing.   
  

Beren:  
    
But--  
  

Captain:  
    
Enough.  
  
[Beren starts to protest some more, then gives in.]  
  

Beren:  
    
So you could just walk out of here -- or however it works -- but you don't. That must really irritate everybody.  
  

Ranger:  
    
We're taking bets on whether we're going to be the first in history to be evicted from the Halls.  
  

Beren:  
    
Why?  
  

Ranger:  
    
It would fit with the cyclical notion of history repeating itself, and the wish has been expressed loudly more than a few times that it was allowable.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [correcting]  
    
I think he was trying to ask why they'd want to throw us out at all.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Oh. Well, they were really, really put out with us introducing the concept of dueling in the first place. Battle reenactment is so far beyond that that the Lord and Lady were completely speechless when they found out.  
  

Steward:  
    
I believe it is the failure to leave off that is the issue now, not the past.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Only it isn't our fault, Sir.  
  

Steward: [dry]  
    
Another debatable point, that.  
  

Beren:  
    
So what's going on? I don't really understand.  
  

Captain:  
    
The resentment over our status keeps tending to spill over into outright aggression. Naturally we're not going to allow them to attack us -- or the King -- without a fight. And it goes on from there.  
  

Steward:  
    
Complicated by the fact that His Majesty refuses to allow his behaviour to be curtailed by threat of offense.  
  

Beren:  
    
So the rest of the Elves here are angry because you could go if you wanted, and they can't.  
  

Steward:  
    
A small but active minority, almost exclusively composed of partisans of House Feanor.  
  

Beren: [puzzled]  
    
Not everybody?  
  

Captain: [quietly]  
    
Most people aren't ready. Not even the Feanorians --  
  

Steward:  
    
\--especially not the Feanorians--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--and they know it. But there's a lot of resentment left over from Beleriand as well.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
That seems all backwards.  
  

Captain:  
    
It does, doesn't it?  
  

Beren:  
    
So that's why they might attack him if they see him in the Halls?  
  

Captain: [nodding]  
    
Now you have to remember that Finrod Felagund is also and as much a scion of the House of Finwe as any of the more egregious members of the family, and that means that on some level he enjoys competition -- especially against his relatives, and their representatives -- as much as anyone else. Possibly more. Most particularly when nothing critical is depending on the outcome. This means that he can't just lose gracefully and take the challenge out of it -- no, he's got to beat them in new and more spectacular ways each time, which in turn simply incites them to new levels of aggression. The last time they set upon him with an entire company of horse.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
What happened then?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, put it this way -- none of them are Maiar.  
  

Ranger: [smugly]  
    
\--And don't they realize that now!  
  

Captain:  
    
Lady Vaire was quite put out with Himself for traumatizing them so badly, but Lady Nia pointed out that they had made tremendous strides in terms of progress towards humility and self-knowledge, so that harangue didn't last long. It did cause the imposition of an absolute crackdown on him rearranging the structures of the place, but there are ways around that.  
  

Beren:  
    
But what happened?  
  

Captain: [shrugging]  
    
They cheat, he uses corresponding power. Thirty-to-one and cavalry to boot most definitely being cheating, he forwent restraint and used some of the Dagor Bragollach illusions on them -- only they weren't all illusions: some of the rifts and ridges were quite real -- as the horses weren't he had no compunction whatsoever about employing the technique and even though the napalm was illusory, when you've just been thrown into a twelve-foot crater you didn't believe was there, you're not inclined to test the actuality of such things.  
  

Third Guard: [gleeful]  
    
The most insulting part was when he showed up to meet his uncle without the slightest mention of having been waylaid, and no sign of it at all -- they never even got near him -- and the upper-level House Feanor folk who were waiting to see him set down didn't know what to do -- they couldn't exactly ask, "Oh, did our warriors miss you in the Halls somehow?"  
  

Beren: [faintly]  
    
I see.  
  
[pause]  
  
So he's here because he doesn't have to deal with Amarie not forgiving him in here, and you're here because he's here, and nobody actually wants you in here, and the other Noldor aren't sure whether to hate you because you can leave, or because you don't. Even though they don't really want to leave, either.  
  
[pause]  
  
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.  
  

Soldier: [cheerfully]  
    
Some people think trying to hit us is the appropriate response.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
If I was alive I would say this needs a drink to make any sense out of.  
  

Captain:  
    
If you think that would help--  
  
[He takes the flask from his belt and starts to offer it to Beren, but pauses to unstopper it first before handing it to him]  
  

Beren: [staring at the canteen in his hand]  
    
What's this?  
  

Captain:  
    
Er -- a drink . . .?  
  

Beren:  
    
But what is it?  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
A passable recollection of miruvor.  
  

Beren:  
    
But you just gave it to me.  
  

Captain: [bewildered]  
    
I thought you wanted a drink. Sorry if I misunderstood  
  

Beren: [agitated]  
    
But how can it be real? If it's your memory, not mine, then how come it didn't disappear when you handed it to me?  
  

Captain: [frowning]  
    
Because I don't want it to?  
  

Beren:  
    
How do we know it's the same for me as it is for you?  
  

Captain:  
    
We don't -- but . . . we don't know that when we're corporate either, do we? I could have experienced the taste of it differently then.  
  
[Beren shakes his head, baffled]  
  

Beren: [increasingly manic]  
    
Is it an illusion? But what does illusion mean here? If we don't have have any bodies, then isn't everything an illusion? Is that how it works?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you remember the last night we dared risk lighting a fire, and you "made the mistake" -- I think that was what you said -- of asking --What color was? and if color was in things, how could it be changed by light? And after when he'd finished the preliminary explanation, you said something like, "If it was really that complicated nobody would be able to see" --?  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--Did I ever apologize for laughing? I didn't mean to make you feel foolish.  
  
[Beren nods]  
  
Well, it's rather like that. I could try to explain it, but I'm not sure it wouldn't just make it worse.  
  

Beren. [dissatisfied]  
    
Huh.  
  

Captain:  
    
Edrahil, do you want to take a shot at explaining the notion of the "persistence of ideas" --?  
  

Steward: [sighing]  
    
Not particularly.  
  

Beren: [getting stressed out again]  
    
Why can I even see you? Or anything? Or feel things?  
  

Captain: [forceful tone]  
    
Beren, it's all right. You needn't if it troubles you.  
  
[collects the canteen back from him]  
  

Beren: [louder]  
    
No. I shouldn't be able to. I'm not real, I don't have a body, so things shouldn't seem real to me either.  
  
[gripping his wrist with his remaining hand, pulling at his sleeve]  
  
\--What am I? What is this? How can I sense myself when I don't exist?  
  

Ranger: [reasonable]  
    
But your body isn't what senses things. Not without you at home to perceive them. So why shouldn't you be aware, regardless?  
  
[Beren is seriously thrown by this and hunches over with his head almost to his knees, on the verge of an anxiety attack]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [to the Steward]  
    
It would have been better if you'd tried, Sir.  
  
[Huan crowds in and starts nudging Beren with his muzzle, until the latter straightens up, so that he can rest his head on Beren's knees.]  
  

Huan:  
    
[whines]  
  

Captain: [quietly]  
    
He wants you to scratch his nose. --Huan thinks you're real. And you're not going to deny him existence, are you?  
  
[Beren shakes his head, not looking up. The Captain puts a hand on his shoulder.]  
  
You were going to tell us what happened, and why you're here.  
  

Beren: [muttering]  
    
It really is a long story.  
  

First Guard:  
    
And we've got plenty of time.  
  
[Beren makes a mostly unintelligible reply in which the word "stupid" is about all that can be heard]  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren? Beren, look at me. You don't have to understand being a ghost any more than one's got to understand being alive. I don't know much about mortal ghosts -- you're the only one of us to ever have met one, before now -- but if my own experience is anything to judge by, you remember yourself and the way you experienced Middle-earth in your lifetime too clearly to let that go. Does that make sense at all?  
  
[Beren half-nods, half-shrugs]  
  
There are people who choose to drift around here in an oblivious haze, completely caught up in their own pasts -- and then there are those, no less self-obsessed, who most definitely and definedly interact with everyone else, much to everyone else's regret. Some haven't recovered from the distress of being killed, and can't or won't pull themselves together, and there's nothing that anyone can do for them until they decide they want to communicate with the rest of society and make the effort. There are people who simply refuse to be seen. We find it unspeakably tedious, and there's no one here we've killed whom we're trying to avoid. Do you have reasons to interact with the world at large? Are you stubborn enough to try? Both rhetorical questions, of course.  
  
[leans a bit closer]  
  
And you certainly needn't feel ashamed of showing fear in this company, or looking a fool, or coming undone.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [low voice]  
    
When I first got here I couldn't remember much of anything. I couldn't see. I didn't even remember my name until Huan found me. All I knew was I had to stay until she came.  
  

Captain: [gently]  
    
Beren, you're not supposed to be dead. Of course you'll--  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
I'm mortal, of course I'm supposed to die--  
  

Huan:  
    
[sad whine]  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, Himself has been having certain complicated discussions with the Powers that are in charge here, most particularly with Lady Nia, about that very matter.  
  
[the rest of the Ten look troubled, and Beren gives him a blank expression, and he drops the subject]  
  
Regardless, you're not meant to be violently evicted. If you hadn't been killed, if you'd somehow survived -- I'm making an assumption here, that it wasn't peaceful or natural, but am I wrong?  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  
\--then you'd still be unconscious, weakened and confused for a prolonged amount of time. I've seen Men wounded throughout the course of the Leaguer, and aside from the prolonged part, it never seemed much different from ourselves, the wandering in bad dreams and disorientation and various lingering effects after a severe injury. Am I not right? That your mind also feels the impact of a deep wound?  
  
[Beren looks away, with a shudder, and after a second gives a very quick nod]  
  

Beren: [muttering]  
    
Everything from the time they found me and rescued me to the time when I got shot is pretty hazy.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [blinking]  
    
That isn't a long story at all.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Who shot you?  
  

Beren:  
    
Curufin. No, I meant, that part wasn't very interesting. I kept waiting for it to end and me to wake up, because it didn't seem like it could be real. --That happened when the sons of Feanor caught up with us.  
  

Guard:  
    
I thought they were going to Himring?  
  

Soldier: [confused]  
    
But wait, they were in Nargothrond. Did you go back, then?  
  

Captain:  
    
You remember about that. What's-her-name told us, about how the Prince threw them out so hard they bounced--  
  

Second Guard:  
    
\--a little late, but better late than never--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--and didn't let them get lynched in the backlash.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
What is her name, anyway?  
  

Steward:  
    
No one knows. She still refuses to say, and her friends respect that decision. She was born in Formenos, and none of us knew her in the old days.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But it doesn't matter any more!  
  

Steward:  
    
To her it still matters very much.  
  

Captain:  
    
\-- Though maybe he should have if they started going after Beren for revenge. Is that what happened?  
  

Beren:  
    
Kind of. They tried to kidnap Tinuviel again.  
  

The Ten: [outraged, nearly simultaneously:]  
    
What?!?  
  

Beren: [correcting himself]  
    
It was more a target of opportunity thing, they weren't looking for us, I don't think. We were right about halfway across Dimbar when they caught up with us.  
  

Captain:  
    
Couldn't you have hidden? There's a fair amount of cover through there.  
  

Beren: [embarrassed]  
    
We were -- I was kind of distracted. The bastards almost ran us down and Curufin pulls over and yanksher up before we could get out of their way and flings her across his saddlebow like he's going to ride off with her. I -- I jumped on him and tried to pull him off the horse, and instead I ended up bringing all four of us crashing down, and Tinuviel got thrown clear of the horse, and Curufin was kind of stunned too, and I tried to rip his head off until she came round and whistled me off him. It's a wonder neither one of us got gutted or lost a leg from the Ancrist. --Apparently Celegorm was about to run me through as well, but Huan got in between us and held him at bay. I didn't even notice that.  
  
[sighs]  
  
That was not one of my more rational moments, all right. Huan probably wouldn't have let them take Tinuviel, or get very far, but I didn't even think of that. I just wanted to kill the spawn-of-Morgoth with my bare hands.  
  
[silence]  
  
I know. She told me I was acting like an Orc too, by implication.  
  
[the Ten look at each other]  
  

Warrior:  
    
We were just thinking it was a shame she made you stop. At least I was.  
  
[nods all around]  
  

Soldier: [awed]  
    
You brought down a cavalry charger and defeated the Feanorion, unarmed?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
Tulkas said he helped. Or something. It certainly didn't feel like something I was doing by myself.  
  
[pause]  
  
I was really angry. It -- it kind of all came together when he laughed. It was the same as at the Council after they won. If there had been a rock handy I could have pounded his face off with it, but choking him until his tongue was hanging out was almost as good.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Couldn't you have cut his throat with his own knife?  
  

Beren:  
    
I didn't even think about weapons. It wouldn't have been half as satisfying, anyway. I wanted him to suffer, and then some. And to know it was me that was killing him.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
I'm surprised she made you break off.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
She said we were doing Morgoth's work for him by fighting. And even retroactive Kinslaying is still Kinslaying. --I just sometimes wish I had been too caught up in the moment to hear her until I'd finished crushing his windpipe. Especially after I got shot.  
  

Warrior:  
    
But that wasn't what killed you?  
  

Beren:  
    
No, that was a long time after. Er -- you know what I mean. I took that bastard's stuff -- I figured he owed me replacements, since it was their fault I lost my gear -- which didn't actually do me any any good at the time, because I wasn't going to kill them and there wasn't any way it was feasible to put on his mail safely there -- and I also figured he should pay something to her, so I took his horse, too, and we were leading it away towards the forest, when--  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Just a second, Beren -- have I got this right? --You confiscated Curufin's arms and armour, and his horse?  
  

Beren: [grimly]  
    
Yeah. And his saddlebags. I left him the clothes on his back, but that was all.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But he shot you?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
I'm afraid I wasn't exactly careful of his hair or his face yanking off his hauberk and padding, either. I kind of accidentally stepped on him a couple times, too. Which was satisfying in the short term but probably contributed to things.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
No, I meant, with what?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. He doubled up with Celegorm -- they were still heading through Dungortheb, I guess to their brothers' place out East, though I thought it was crazy, doing that with no armour instead of the long way around.  
  
[he pauses and looks pensive]  
  

Captain:  
    
You all right?  
  

Beren:  
    
What? --Yeah. Yeah, I was just thinking if it would have been possible without armour for me. Answer's no. But then I didn't have someone else for a bodyguard, or a horse. And they weren't going through the mountains, just down the Old Road.  
  

Captain:  
    
You were going to explain how you happened to get shot.  
  

Beren:  
    
Right. So anyway, before they ride on, Celegorm puts a curse on us, tells us it would be better to starve to death in the wilds than make them angry, and wherever we go it wouldn't do us any good, because I'd never succeed in holding onto anything I managed to get -- either the Silmaril or Tinuviel. Which didn't take long to come true.  
  
[pause]  
  
But you wanted to know about him shooting me. His brother. --Me, not his brother.  
  
[he looks tired and frustrated with himself]  
  

First Guard:  
    
\--We know what you mean.  
  
[Beren nods in thanks]  
  

Beren:  
    
All right, so we're walking away towards the forest, and Huan's coming with us -- he was following along, kind of reassuring the horse on the other side, and Curufin grabs his brother's bow and pulls on us, and I guess Huan must have heard that or something, 'cause he spins around and jumps in between and bites the arrow out of the air the way you can grab a javelin if you're in the right place, but the bastard's got another one nocked and ready to loose and he does that before Huan could charge them, and -- he was aiming both times at Tinuviel. --Not at me.  
  
[baring teeth]  
  
Only he was, and he knew it. So I stepped in front of her, and that's how I got shot.  
  
[silence]  
  
I figured if the Curse was going to come true, it wouldn't be the way he thought.  
  

Steward:  
    
Where were you struck?  
  
[Beren gestures towards his upper left chest, just under his collarbone]  
  

Captain:  
    
Stand up.  
  
[He gets up with Beren and marks the level of Beren's wound on himself with his hand -- about the middle of his sternum. He looks very grim, and sounds more so.]  
  
We're almost the same height. --That wasn't an accident or a scare-shot.   
  
[the Ten exchange looks of increasing anger and comprehension. Furious:]  
  
He was shooting to kill her.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, well, he didn't \-- that was left for me.  
  

Captain: [taking him by the shoulders]   
    
Beren. Whatever possible mischance or mischances might have ambushed you out of the Void -- I will never believe that you did anything -- even by accident -- to harm Luthien. Call me a naive fool, if you like, but I don't believe it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
It was my fault she died.  
  

Warrior:  
    
How?  
  

Beren:  
    
I made a dumb mistake -- a lot of dumb mistakes -- and got killed, and . . . and she faded.  
  

Steward:  
    
Faded? The Princess chose to follow you?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
That's not -- you can't-- you're making it sound like she was responsible.  
  

Captain:   
    
Most of us in the King's following have known the Court of Doriath since before your people were born. I don't think there's one soul here who's met her who'd doubt that the child of Melian and Elu Thingol should prove as resolute in love as those two -- any more than we who know you believe that you'd ever hurt her. Sit down and stop blaming yourself for things you didn't do.  
  

Beren:  
    
But--  
  
[the Captain pushes Beren down gently, while the Youngest Ranger and the Fourth Guard pull him down from either side, and sits down himself]  
  

Captain:  
    
So what happened after you got shot?  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't remember.  
  
[at their Looks]  
  
No, I mean, I passed out, I only know what Tinuviel told me. Afterwards. Huan went after them and then they took care of me, and that made me realize that it was never going to work, there was no way I could go on pretending it could, and I had to convince them.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Er . . . what?  
  

Beren:  
    
That she couldn't stay with me, we couldn't just pretend that everything was fine like it used to be and the world didn't matter to us -- we had to resolve this and she needed to go back to Doriath where it was safe. --Or it was, then.  
  

Warrior:  
    
No, I -- I meant, earlier -- I was a little confused by all the "theys".  
  

Steward:  
    
I believe that the first reference was to the Lords Celegorm and Curufin, the second and third to the Lord of Dogs and the Lady Luthien. --Is that correct?  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
\--Someone else should really be telling this.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, you're doing fine -- we just want more details. --Did I really hear you say that Huan here actually attacked that pair of traitors?  
  
[Huan makes an unhappy grumbling noise]  
  

Steward:   
    
I'm not entirely sure that -- technically -- the Feanorions' actions should be considered treason, seeing that--  
  

Captain: [cutting him off]  
    
\--They had guest-right and they dishonored that along with kin-right. That makes them traitors not just once, but twice over, even if they never did swear fealty. Now be quiet, Edrahil, I'm not going to argue semantics, we want to hear what happened to Beren.  
  

Beren: [embarrassed]  
    
Sirs, please--  
  

Steward: [smiling a little, for the first time]  
    
It's all right. Please continue.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
So anyway, yeah, Huan went for them, and she said he was really scary, she'd never imagined he could look like that, he was even angrier than he had been fighting Sauron, and if I hadn't been hurt and he hadn't broken off the chase to come back and help me she doesn't know what he would have done to them. So then she pulled it out -- the arrow -- and cleaned it out, and he found her some kind of plant to use for a pain-killer--  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Which one?  
  

Beren:  
    
Didn't recognize it. I don't know the lowland vegetation as well as the northern types. Worked, though -- even the scar didn't hurt. --She sang it shut. It should have taken weeks to knit, and maybe never properly, and it healed overnight.  
  

Captain:  
    
What class was the point?  
  

Beren:  
    
All-purpose military-hunting, long barbs to keep it in--  
  
[makes a demonstrating V with his left hand]  
  
\--and sharpened on the outside. --Not birdshot. The sort of thing you don't dare try to take out if you don't know what you're doing and have irons ready in case something big's been cut. --And then she built a shelter out of branches to keep the wind and rain out and a fire and kept me from getting dehydrated and getting trapped by the power of the Dark while I was unconscious.  
  

Steward:  
    
You sound surprised.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
It -- just -- is not what I thought of when I thought of Elven princesses, um, chopping up branches and dragging piles of wood around and so forth.  
  

Captain: [innocent]  
    
And you've met exactly how many?  
  

Beren:  
    
Er -- two . . .  
  

Captain:  
    
Finduilas is hardly a statistical sampling, you know. You never met His Majesty's sister, or his cousin, or--  
  
[checks]  
  
Ah.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Indeed.  
  

Captain: [urgent]  
    
Beren, if you happen to encounter the High King's daughter, don't bring up the sons of Feanor to her. She doesn't like hearing that they're bloody maniacs and insists it's all a misunderstanding, and she tends to the preemptive strike, even if she does apologize after.  
  

Beren: [blinking]  
    
Uh, okay.  
  

Captain:  
    
But anyhow, you know that a majority of our medical people are female -- and you know what Healers do -- so what are you so amazed about?  
  

Beren: [sheepish]  
    
Tinuviel just always seemed so -- so much too nice, to be completely unfazed by blood up to her elbows and deranged relatives trying to kidnap her and getting knocked off a horse and knocked out and me being hurt and having to do everything by herself-- with Huan, yeah, but there wasn't a whole lot of help he could give her past that point, except give moral support and keep Curufin's horse from running off.  
  

Warrior: [very interested]  
    
Which one was he? Stormwing or Watersong? Those were their best steeds -- I'm sure they would have taken them.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
I dunno -- what did they look like?  
  

Warrior:  
    
The dappled-grey one or . . . er, the other dappled-grey one . . .  
  
[trails off]  
  

Beren: [straightfaced]  
    
The big grey one with spots.  
  
[they grin]  
  
He never said what his name was -- I just called him "Roch" and he didn't seem to mind.  
  
[quiet laughter all around]  
  
I'm pretty sure he called me "that maniac who knocks horses over" -- it was a long time before he stopped looking at me with his eyes all white around the edges trying to see what I was doing wherever I was, even after Huan took him aside and explained it was an accident.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
\--I didn't know you coulddo that. I guess it's like pulling your mount over on yourself, but -- he wasn't a pony, by a long shot--! It was kind of funny the way he used to try to keep Huan in between us when we were walking at first, and if Huan was off scouting or hunting -- he'd try to hide behind her, like I couldn't see him if his head was out of sight.  
  
[smiling]  
  
It was kind of cute -- at first Tinuviel didn't realize what he was doing, and then when she did she'd walk a little faster or a little slower so that he'd have to hurry to keep up, or then stop to stay hidden, or then she'd hop up and talk to us from his back. I've never seen an animal try to look three directions at once. He was a nice horse, though. I thought it would be a lot harder to ride him -- oh, I'll have to tell him he was right, I could have done it for his plan. King Finrod, I mean.  
  
[sighs, with a nostalgic smile]  
  
Those were good days.  
  
[checks -- his smile fades]  
  
Well -- by comparison. While they -- lasted. I--  
  
[he looks down, biting his lip, and rocking a little; the Guard beside him puts an arm around his shoulders and gives him a little shake]  
  

Fourth Guard: [consolingly]  
    
\--It's all right -- you don't think we'd grudge you any happiness, do you?  
  

Steward:  
    
"While they lasted" -- yet obviously they did not last long. What happened to bring them to an end??  
  

Beren:  
    
I -- uh -- I had to go get a Silmaril.  
  

Several of the Ten: [simultaneously]  
    
\--Why??   
  

Beren:  
    
I had to.  
  

Captain:  
    
But that doesn't make any sense at all, lad. You were supposed to get the stone to win the Lady's hand -- but the Princess came to find you, so the question of needing it to break her free from Doriath was moot. Why didn't you just -- what's that mortal word? --elope\--?  
  

Beren:  
    
That wouldn't have been honorable. --I made a vow. I promised to fulfill the task.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
But you know it wasn't a fair task.  
  

Beren: [frustrated]  
    
But I promised.  
  
[pause]  
  
And Tinuviel was going to get killed staying with me, or worse. We just smacked the Enemy's top commander upside the head, so to speak, and this was the same guy who spent four bleeding years trying to hunt me down. I could imagine what he would try to do to us now.  
  

Captain:  
    
But could he? I mean, without any base to work from, with his elite corps ripped to shreds, how much can he do now? That night essentially put him in the same spot you were in those last years in Dorthonion. I would be very surprised if he weren't replaced by someone with no failure record and consequently no real experience of the War.  
  
[Beren shrugs uncomfortably]  
  

Beren:  
    
That doesn't do anything about local Orc-bands and the rest of the minions that escaped from the Tower, in fact it could be worse because they didn't have anyone to tell them where to be now. And the sons of Feanor still being out there. And even with Huan we couldn't hardly protect her from her two psychotic kinsmen. --I kept trying to tell her this. And she kept saying we could just sneak into her parents' back woods and hide out along the edges the way I did before, and we'd be fine.  
  
[growing frustrated just remembering it]  
  
And I kept trying to explain that this wasn't going to work, no way in hell was it going to work, and she needed to be someplace where there were defenses, strong defenses, and that meant Doriath, because there was also no way in hell we could go back to Nargothrond -- because I knew what happened to isolated farmsteads and people who tried to hold out on their own in the open. And she'd just keep on saying we'd be fine.  
  
  
[the Ten exchange troubled glances, considering the problem]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--And that there was no way in hell she was ever going to go back to Menegroth unless I came with her. And that wasn't going to happen without a Silmaril. Though I thought it was optimistic to think that even doing that would guarantee safe-conduct. So I got up really early one morning when she was still asleep and I told Huan to stay with her and keep her safe, and then I rode back again west and north to Ard-galen.  
  

Captain:  
    
Without saying good-bye!?  
  

Beren:  
    
I couldn't have done it otherwise. And . . . I wasn't strong enough for the argument -- I would have ended up giving in again that day.  
  
[The Captain glances over at the Steward, who does not look at him]  
  

Steward:  
    
Did you truly believe it possible that you might accomplish it, on your own?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
No. But I couldn't not try. I just couldn't let her get killed or -- or caught, and have it be my fault. Not if I could do something to stop it. I thought she'd be reasonable enough to go home once it was obvious I was really gone this time.  
  

Warrior:  
    
What happened to "Horse"?  
  

Beren:  
    
I turned him loose after we got to the Plains -- I told him he didn't have to go back to Curufin if he didn't want to, I didn't want him getting stressed about it, and going through what Huan went through, plus the spiders and the fell things on the way there, and he was glad enough to see the last of me -- though I think he did finally trust me a little by then. Last I saw him he was heading south towards the river as fast as he could gallop.  
  

Warrior: [astounded]  
    
You convinced an Eldar war-steed to return to the site of the Battle?  
  
[pause -- stifled:]  
  
I would say -- yes, he trusted you -- but not a little.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [encouraging]  
    
Keep going.  
  

Beren:  
    
So, I was going to try to make it in -- I figured it couldn't be much worse than Dungortheb, there had to still be springs and stuff, even if nothing grew there any more, and so long as it wasn't too contaminated I could still drink it, because it couldn't take anywhere near as long as the mountains to get over, since it was flat. But not completely flat, so probably there would be enough cover I could evade any patrols up to the walls, and then maybe find a route up like we had planned initially for the mission, sneak in through some access way or something. And then get killed. --Or more likely caught, again.  
  
[silence; the Ten exchange significant glances]  
  

Captain: [bemused]  
    
I've never known anyone who could combine the most outrageous self-confidence and absolute pessimism quite the way you do.  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, it didn't happen that way, because it turns out Huan's one of those dogs who puts the most creative interpretations on "stay" --  
  
[scratches Huan's ears -- in the "doting dog-owner" voice:]  
  
\--isn't that right, boy? That's what you did\--  
  
[Huan snuffles against his face]  
  
\--and so he decided that "stay with Tinuviel" could be stretched to mean "bring Tinuviel with me wherever I go" and they showed up before I actually got anywhere and yelled at me for being an idiot. It was really awful -- I saw them from a distance and thought "I don't believe it, I'm almost exactly where we were caught before, this is some kind of twisted game the Enemy's playing, letting me get two leagues farther along" -- and then Huan left because it would be more of a risk for us to be seen with him than he could be helpful defending us, and to go round up some reinforcements, even though he didn't say anything about that then and we didn't know about that till later.  
  
[there are some confused looks exchanged at this, but no one interrupts]  
  
And then we crossed the desert -- that part seemed really hard at the time, but by comparison to the rest of it it was actually pretty easy -- but the sun was really rough on Tinuviel, and I kept cursing myself for dragging her into it, but I couldn't stop \-- and then we got to the road -- this causeway thing they've built out of slag and rubble and stuff, it goes a long way out into the Plains, and there was shade next to that. We hid down there from a troop of Enemy soldiers being sent out West -- I think they must have been going to the siege of the High King's fortress -- and after they were past we tried to get through the Gates, but this Wolf -- Thing \-- there, the size of a, a, -- no, bigger -- than the biggest wild oxen you've ever seen. You know how much bigger Huan is than most werewolves? She said that's how much bigger than Huan Sauron was. When he was a wolf. --Well, that's how much bigger than Sauron this one, that was lying there in front of the Gates, was.  
  
[there are some hasty calculations made and more looks exchanged]  
  

Captain:  
    
You're talking about something three-to-four times the size of an ordinary warg there.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. He gets up and gets in the way -- I mean, even more in the way, 'cause he already was in the way -- gets in my face, and starts sniffing suspiciously at her in spite of her cloaks and all I could think was, Tinuviel was gonna die, and--  
  

One of the Ten: [cutting over, from the background]  
    
"--and it would all be your fault--" [Beren stops, turns, and glares at the Captain]  
  

Captain: [raising his hands]  
    
Wasn't me. --Someone beat me to it.  
  
[Beren closes his eyes and makes an exasperated noise]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
\--Sorry, Beren.  
  

Beren:  
    
Now I forgot where I was.  
  

Captain:  
    
You were explaining about the Wolf at the door, and how it was all your fault.  
  

Beren: [gives up, laughing]  
    
\--All right, all right. So he's there, and I'm thinking, "We're dead, I have to fight this guy, and there's no way I can take him--" and she just steps out from behind me and says "Down!" and wham!--  
  
[gesturing wildly]  
  
\--there's this flash like when lightning hits a tree right by you but without any noise and he just drops on the ground like a felled ox and that's it. And we just went sneaking past him into Angband, like a couple of rats going by a sleeping cat.   
  

First Guard: [awed]  
    
She killed it?  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
No, it would have been better if we could have, because then he wouldn't have got into Doriath, but Huan said it was fated so I'm not sure anyone else even could. He was just sound asleep. Anyway, we thought maybe we could duck in and hide and check out the place before doing anything else, but -- He \-- spotted Tinuviel right away and threatened to blast her down right there, if she didn't explain what she was doing there -- and she did this amazing act where she told him the exact truth -- only not all of it -- and sounding like she was completely helpless and terrified, and he thought he was in control and playing her like a fish on a line, only it was completely the other way round. I had to go against all my instincts to rush out and defend her and just trust her to know what she was doing, like with Carcaroth.  
  

Steward:  
    
You weren't noticed?  
  

Beren:   
    
I was flat on the floor under his chair in the dark. Everyone was watching Tinuviel.  
  

Captain:  
    
You were under Morgoth's throne?!  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
I know, it sounds really lame -- but storming out waving a sword into the middle of a hall full of Balrogs and assorted minions didn't seem like it was going to work all that well.  
  

Soldier: [to the Second Guard beside him]  
    
Somehow I just had an image of Feanor when he said that.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, well, you know -- lurking around in the shadows and dashing out when they're drunk and careless is more my style.  


  



	10. Scene II - part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Second Guard:  
    
I'm having a hard time imagining this at all.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
It would help if any of us had actually seen the inside of Angband ever, or if Beren had bothered to describe the scenery.  
  
[the next several exchanges all overlap as people talk over each other and answer different questions]  
  

Beren:  
    
Ah, it was really ugly--  
  

Warrior:  
    
I'm still trying to imagine a wolf the size of an aurochs or larger.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--it looked kind of burnt, kind of like the Nightshade, only worse than the edges you guys saw, and--  
  

Steward: [dryly]  
    
How peculiar --I'm trying very hard not to.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--there were designs on them that I don't want to remember. And Balrogs. Multiple Balrogs.  
  
[pause]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Did you run into Glaurung?  
  

Beren: [deadpan]  
    
You know, I was wondering what was lacking to make the experience complete, and guess what, that was it. Somehow there was a disaster that we actually missed.  
  

Captain: [also straightfaced]  
    
Shocking inefficiency. I wonder how that happened.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Beren, I know you're superb at that "lurking around" business, but I'm still finding it somewhat hard to believe that you were able to wander freely inside Thangorodrim without being spotted. Not to mention Her Highness.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. We -- we were disguised as minions.  
  
[he sighs]  
  

Ranger:  
    
I see. That makes sense.  
  

Captain: [noticing Beren's downcast look]  
    
What's wrong?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh . . . I was just thinking.  
  
[he checks briefly, and goes on more brightly:]  
  
\--You know if I'd been able to do that myself back in Dorthonion, I could have--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Lad, if you'd been able to turn yourself into an Orc during your War, you'd have gotten yourself into so much trouble you wouldn't have lived long enough to get yourself into more trouble. --You know I'm right.   
  
  
Now you can't stop now \-- you've just gotten to the most exciting part. So far.  
  
[he reaches over and shakes Beren's shoulder, trying to get him to look up. Earnestly:]  
  
You know we -- none of us -- wanted you here. But it's too hard for us not to be pleased now that you have turned up. Stop fretting. Trust the King. --Trust your Lady. They'll work things out for the best.  
  
[Beren sighs and nods]  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay, where was I?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Under Morgoth's seat, you said.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah -- when I made that vow that I'd avenge Da if it took me to the Gates of Angband to challenge the Dark Lord himself -- that was not the scenario I had in mind. So I'm hiding there, and looking out between his heels, trying not to make any noise, and I knew he was a giant, I remembered about him smashing big pits in the ground when he killed the High King -- we even passed them on the way in, they're still there -- but I wasn't ready for how much larger than us. Or having to lie there and watching his minions eating corpses. I still have nightmares about that place.  
  

Steward:  
    
You said he recognized Lady Luthien?  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
She came down in front of the hall when he told her to, and tried to keep bluffing that she was a courier from Sauron, but he goes, "What are you talking about? We just had the reports from Taur-na-fuin. You're not one of our people!" and--  
  

Ranger: [surprised]  
    
That's almost exactly what happened to us--  
  

Beren: [bitter]  
    
Yeah, I know -- again. So she admits it, and he starts laughing and wants to know what her dad's thinking to send her on a mission, if Thingol had lost it finally. And she explains how he doesn't know she's there, that he tried to keep her too hemmed in and she ran away, and all roads eventually lead to Angband because that's where the power in Middle-earth is and she realizes that now, and she's willing to serve him as an entertainer because she needs to and has no place left to go, and he starts making all kinds of crude remarks about needs and serving and I'm trying to keep my cool and not wreck it this time by losing my temper--  
  

Captain:  
    
No, you can't have all that blame. None of us were expecting to hear her name under those circumstances, and all of us reacted. Himself most of all.  
  
[Beren does not look entirely reassured but goes on:]  
  

Beren:  
    
And anyway what could I have done? Maybe hamstrung him? That didn't slow him down much the last time, and it didn't seem like it would help her any. So I trusted her.  
  

Captain:  
    
Best thing you could have done.  
  

Beren: [frankly]  
    
It was hard. When he reached out to grab her, saying something like, "This will make me feel better about the gods enjoying our misery," it was all I could do not to lunge for his ankle. And Tinuviel says, "Nope! You listen to me now!" and melts right out of his hands like he was trying to catch hold of a shadow, and she flings open her capes and starts to dance, like swallows over the water, that quick, or like real bats when you see them out in the door-yard flying after bugs at twilight, to her own music, and it was like Esgalduin pouring in to drown us all with sleep.  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--You too?  
  

Beren:  
    
Of course. Not like I could resist it, if a god couldn't.  
  

Soldier:  
    
She couldn't -- be selective?  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
You don't understand, this was the real thing \-- this was like a flood when the ice melts up in the mountains, it's coming down and everything in its way is going down. But it wasn't a weapon \-- not like knocking someone over the head to put them out -- she gave -- us \-- what we needed -- what we really wanted: absolute peace. Complete rest from pain, and having to think, and regrets, and hating each other, and that's why there was no way anything there could hold out against it. Not even Morgoth. Though she said it took longest to take him down, but in the end he slumps down like an avalanche and the Iron Crown goes rolling across the floor --  
  
[making a sweeping gesture with his hand]  
  
\--and not even that woke anyone up. She said it sounded not like metal clanging but like when thunder hits all the sudden, it was that big and heavy. So then she wakes me up and I crawl out from under trying not to step on any of the other minions or the snakes -- hey, why are there adders in Angband? Just loose on the floor -- his people just stepped over them, or on them, or kicked them out of the way. And it was cold, so they should have been hibernating but these were awake, until they weren't any more.  
  

Steward: [thinks for a second]  
    
Worm prototypes.  
  

Beren:  
    
? ? ?  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Experimental Dragons. Did they appear to be fashioned out of metal?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. I -- I'm not really sure, it was hard to see -- but they did make a lot more noise than adders usually do when they moved. Like someone filing something. So maybe. And I got up, and . . . there they were.  
  
[he stops, staring into the distance, until the Captain clears his throat]  
  
I . . . it was like a sunset, and the northern lights, and sunrise, and when you look up through water and see daylight, all together . . .  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Yes.  
  

Beren:  
    
But it was like sunlight through Autumn leaves in the wind, too, and the Stars . . .  
  
[pulling himself together]  
  
  
And then we tried to get the jewel off the Crown -- it was way too big and heavy to take the whole thing, like trying to carry a cartwheel made out of metal -- and I'm trying to pop it out of the setting with my bare hands, and it isn't working, and Tinuviel's hovering like she's about to take off again, trying to get me to hurry, and I'm getting more and more frustrated, and then after all -- stupid! --that I remembered about the Angrist, and I got that and sawed off the prongs that were holding it on, and . . . light. I thought it would feel cold, like a polished stone, but it felt like sunlight in my hand. It shone right through -- like a candle through cloth -- but it wasn't hot. It didn't even occur to me that I should be afraid -- like picking up bees. I knew they weren't afraid of me, or angry, they wouldn't do anything to me . . .  
  
[he is rapt at the memory again]  
  

Soldier: [quietly]  
    
That's right. I'd forgotten all about that -- how dangerous they were. You shouldn't have been able to even touch them.  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
Ah. My conjecture was mistaken.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir?  
  

Steward:  
    
I had assumed that was the cause of your maiming.  
  

Beren:  
    
No, that -- that was a little later.  
  
[pause -- he continues under the gentle pressure of encouraging looks]  
  
So then I thought if the first one came off that easy, and we weren't going to try this again, I shouldn't waste the chance because who was ever going to get another like that? and I went to hack out the second one, and the knife -- you remember how Curufin used to brag how it could cut through anything? Well, he was wrong.  
  
[grimaces]  
  
It stuck and popped apart when I tried sawing the next setting, and the piece of it went flying up like that -- bing \--  
  
[gestures]  
  
\--just like an arrow, or a spear, and hit him in the forehead. And he kind of snorts and moves around like someone asleep who's got a fly walking on his face and we didn't dare keep trying, we just grabbed the Jewel and ran like crazy. And we almost made it.  
  
[The Ten share glances of regret - Beren does not realize what they are assuming]  
  
But Carcaroth was already awake, and he's standing there sniffing around as we come up, and the instant he sees us it's over. There's no other way to go, and he's blocking the exit, and he's mad. And Tinuviel was already almost collapsing when she took the spell off me, we're holding onto each other pulling each other along but she's leaning on me more, and she just gives him this look, like, "I can't do this again, -- but I have to" and he sees her and his hackles go right up -- she was the one he most wanted to kill at the beginning, she really bothered him even when he thought she was Thuringwethil. So I pushed her behind me and shoved the Silmaril up in his face.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Why?  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Instinct, mostly. --I thought if it burned Morgoth, it might repel him, or at least blind him, or at least have a chance where a blade wouldn't -- and it did, for a second, but he was too strong, or I didn't do it right, and he just whipped right back around with his head and bit at it like it was a fly.  
  
[bringing his left hand down hard against his wrist]  
  
He went through it like kindling -- I could hear the bones crunch when he closed, there wasn't any time for me to pull back or anything -- and bolted it down like he'd caught the fly and was swallowing it. And then he just stood there for a second with his eyes all glowing and growling, just like a guard dog would for trespassers -- except for the eyes glowing -- and I knew we'd had it, but then he gives this howl like he'd been shot, but it's as loud as the whole pack would be, and he kind of arches like a fish jumping out of the water, and then he keeps on bucking like a colt -- or like a hooked salmon, and he flings around for a minute there before dashing outside like he was closing with deer. And there was nothing but air between us and the Plains.  
  

Third Guard:   
    
So you didn't die then.  
  

Beren:  
    
No. Luthien dragged me out of there and we managed to get clear of the Gate before it fell in.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Carcaroth wasn't waiting for you?  
  

Ranger:  
    
Why did it fall in?  
  

Beren:   
    
No, he was gone. Nothing but dust clouds and echoes way out there. Huh?  
  

Ranger:  
    
What was that about the Gate?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. Morgoth woke up then, I guess, since there was this unbelievable roaring noise coming from below and the walls started shaking and the floor, and it just kept getting worse -- all the wargs in the place started howling the way dogs do sometimes, and rocks were falling down from the ceiling, and after we got out there was a landslide from up on Thangorodrim and it filled up most of the archway with rubble and took down a lot of the masonry over the Gate itself.  
  

Captain:  
    
That seems rather counterproductive behavior, doesn't it?  
  

Beren:   
    
Yeah, his temper-tantrum meant that the pursuit couldn't get after us right away. So anyway she carries me the rest of the way out and into the open as far as she could, and we couldn't go any farther, and we collapsed in one of the gouges left by Grond, which was a little bit of cover, and she keeps trying to heal me even though her voice makes her a target, and the lightning bolts are hitting awfully close--  
  

Warrior:  
    
\--Lightning-bolts?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, he wasn't willing to wait for them to unblock the door, I guess, and these fireballs kept coming at us from the peak, and the ground kept shaking, and I thought the whole world was ending or something. She actually sucked all the poison out of the amputation site -- that sounds so much neater than it was -- it -- well, you've seen a dog eating a hare -- it was blood and ends and sharp bits and--  
  
[he stops short and bends down to hide his face against Huan's coat again. Brief pause]  
  

Warrior:  
    
Are you all right?  
  
(Beren shakes his head, not looking up. Huan makes a grumbling noise, his brow furrowing, but doesn't move (which would force Beren to straighten)]  
  

First Guard: [understandingly]  
    
None of us had to watch.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger pats Beren on the back, his expression sympathetic]  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren? --Beren?  
  
[when he still doesn't move, the Captain signals to the Youngest Ranger, who obediently pokes Beren hard in the ribs, causing him to sit up in outrage]  
  
You're not being very considerate, stopping all the time like this, you realize.  
  

Beren:  
    
But I don't remember the next part.  
  
[The Guard on his right grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him hard in humorous exasperation]  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
\--Well, did you die or not then? That's all we want to know.  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--Speak for yourself!  
  
[to Beren]  
  
\--Star and Water! can't you just tell the story, and save the apologizing for after?  
  

Beren: [chagrined]  
    
Well . . . I . . . was just lying there while she worked on me, and I kept blacking out and coming to again and wondering why I couldn't die, and after a bit Tinuviel finished singing and pulled her cloak over us and we just waited, and at some point I didn't wake up again.  
  

Soldier:  
    
And what about her?  
  

Beren:  
    
The Eagles came and picked us up and took us back to Huan. Back to Doriath, as a matter of fact, right where we started from when I tried to sneak off.  
  

Steward:  
    
So you were still alive at that juncture?  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
I'm not doing a very good job of telling this, am I?  
  

Steward:  
    
Most people are somewhat disoriented and find it difficult to recount their death-experiences without some initial counselling. Of course, you've always been somewhat disorganized and deficient as a storyteller, though no more so than most mortals.  
  
[Beren gives him an anxious look]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Don't listen to Master Particular there. I'm enjoying the tale so far.  
  

Steward:  
    
I am speaking only from a bardic standpoint, in answer to milord's direct question. Continuity and coherence are challenges for a human mind to achieve.  
  

Captain:  
    
That's because Ea is complicated and messy and happens all at once. --So you weren't dead. Yet.  
  

Beren:  
    
Um, no, I wasn't dead, though I wasn't sure about it at the time. I--  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought you didn't remember anything --  
  

Soldier: [interrupting]  
    
Wait a minute, wait a minute -- what Eagles? Where did they come from?  
  

Beren:  
    
I think they live in the mountains down south of Rivil Falls.  
  

Soldier:  
    
You mean -- the Eagles. --Manwe's Eagles?  
  

Beren:  
    
The sacred Eagles, yeah. Ordinary eagles couldn't carry anybody anywhere. Except maybe a baby and that's not a fun thing to think about.  
  

Soldier:  
    
You got a divine intervention to pull you out of there? Like the King's uncle?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, only we were still alive. Mostly.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
But why did he send them for you? Was it because the Princess is Melian's daughter?  
  
[the Youngest Ranger looks as if he's going to say something, but doesn't want to interrupt]  
  

Beren:  
    
No, because of Huan. I mean, Huan sent them. For us.  
  

Ranger:  
    
And they just came? Like that?   
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Well -- yeah. Is that not supposed to happen?  
  

Ranger:  
    
It -- seems very odd. Not to mention implausible. I didn't think that Manwe would be watching that closely, and then there's the Doom. Though neither of you are Noldor, so perhaps . . .  
  

Youngest Ranger: [finally]  
    
Our traditions say that the Eagle-king acts on his own. He's the Sky-king's liege, not a slave. The same with his family.   
  

Beren:  
    
I think they did it because Huan asked them to. I don't know exactly. She talked to them, not me. I was unconscious. Then when I woke up it was like nothing had changed except the weather, because pretty soon we started fighting about how it wasn't safe to stay out there and she kept arguing that it was, since nothing had happened that they couldn't handle in and the bad weather was over which was the worst of it and it was going to be summer pretty soon. Finally I convinced her we had to go back to her parents' place.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Every time I think you've come to the end, you start a new adventure. Does this story ever stop?  
  

Warrior:  
    
Well obviously it did, since they're all here, right?  
  
[elbows the other in the ribs]  
  
Don't interrupt again now that he's finally telling it. --What do you mean, "summer"? How long were you comatose?  
  

Beren:  
    
End of winter -- beginning of spring. I came out of it when the Balance changed.  
  
[silence]  
  

Warrior: [quietly]  
    
At least you weren't in pain for the duration.  
  

Beren:  
    
Actually--  
  
[breaks off, then picks up again guiltily]  
  
It wasn't exactly pain,but -- I thought I was dead, and lost somewhere trying to get here. It was all grey, and the terrain was terrible, and it kept changing, and there were things in it I had to fight and escape from, and there was this light, or something, that kept luring me over to it, but I had this feeling I shouldn't go that way, that it was an illusion to a trap -- but everywhere I went seemed to go back there, except when I closed my eyes and followed the Song. Her voice was the only true thing in that place. But I wasn't always brave enough to do that, and I kept getting lost again for a long time. But she got me out of there finally.  
  
[silence]  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you have any idea where you were?  
  

Beren: [meaningfully]  
    
You don't think it was a dream either.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, I think it was a dream. Very definitely. And I think the Lord of Fetters was trying to lure you into his hold.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay, that's kind of what I thought. But Tinuviel wasn't sure, because she couldn't see where I was, because I'm not an Elf, and she didn't know if we go into the Grey Country too, or if I was just trapped inside my mind because of the poison. There wasn't anybody else there with me. Except I could hear her singing, like before, when I was shot.  
  
[the Captain reaches across and takes Beren'schin, looking him in the eyes]  
  

Captain:  
    
That's an awfully long time to be lost. Mortal or not.  
  

Beren: [hugging Huan's neck]  
    
I -- know. They took care of me all that time.  
  

Captain:  
    
And you kept on, and got home safe and sane.  
  
[he grips Beren's shoulder and then his wrist]  
  
Good job.  
  
[Beren half-smiles, still shaken talking or thinking about it]  
  

Steward:  
    
So you returned to Doriath, and to Menegroth, after all?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. I had a hard time believing that they weren't about to shoot me, or lock me up like he threatened, but Tinuviel just stormed right back in like a hurricane and acted like she owned the place, and people just fell in with it. It was really strange -- this time nobody was laughing, and the way they were staring it was like they hoped we were gonna rescue them -- only we didn't know right then from what. It was so different from the other time . . .  
  

Steward:  
    
Was Huan with you both?  
  
[Beren nods]  
  
One would rather imagine that put a somewhat of a constraint upon anyone who would have arrested you.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but nobody even tried. Or wanted to. And we go in to where her parents are dealing with the chaos, and she drags us right up there and says--  
  

Captain: [interrupting]  
    
\--What chaos?  
  

Beren:  
    
All the refugees. And everybody being mobilized who could carry a weapon.  
  

Steward:  
    
Refugees? From where?  
  

Ranger:  
    
And how did they get into Doriath?  
  

Beren:  
    
From Doriath. --Um, they were in the Thousand Caves, that's why it was so crazy.  
  

Steward:  
    
From what, then?  
  

Beren:  
    
Carcaroth.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
That's where he went?!  
  

Beren:  
    
Eventually. He was rampaging around the North all that time we were there hiding out in the outskirts of Neldoreth, and finally he busted in through the barriers on the eastern side like the Labyrinth wasn't even there and started killing people in Doriath. He was basically rabid at that point--  
  

First Guard:  
    
How could he get in?  
  

Beren:  
    
Apparently the Silmaril made him practically invincible, --though personally I thought he was to begin with -- and at the same time it made him crazy -- though Tinuviel said he already was crazy, it was so obvious in his aura that she couldn't believe I didn't see it. When they cut him open it had blistered him all up inside like a bucket of hot coals, as fast as he could heal it kept burning right into him.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
So he's dead.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. Thanks to Huan.  
  
[he strokes the Hound's head]  
  
So everyone had evacuated the woods and meadows and moved into the Caves for protection, and they look at us like they can't believe we're back, like we're gods or something come to save them -- I guess a lot of them assumed we were dead to begin with -- and we go into the throne room, and there's this big row going on over what to do and people waving maps and the Queen's just sitting there looking like a ghost, like she doesn't care about anything anymore, and she's in pain, and trying to keep a brave face for everyone else, like my aunt before she got too sick to move, and -- he's looking like Da the night after everybody left and he didn't have to. But he has to keep doing his job.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I was so obnoxious to him. I couldn't help it. We come in and there's all this commotion, and Thingol looks up all angry at the ruckus and then he sees her, and I've never seen anyone look that -- that stricken. But in a good way. Except--  
  
[he looks down for an instant, biting his lip]  
  
Except when His Majesty recognized me. It was like that, only more . . . So we go right up to them, and Tinuviel's holding on to me like grim death, and she's got me between her and Huan on the other side, so obviously she thought they were going to grab me or kill me too, and I get down on one knee and he's just staring at me, and I could see the veins starting to go up on the back of his hands, and before he could say anything I said, "Hey, I'm back like I said I would be -- you gonna keep your promise now?"  
  
[silence -- the Ten react to this image]  
  
Yeah. I know. But what could I say? I couldn't even say "you can't call me a thrall," 'cause that wasn't true any more, and I just had to -- take control, I couldn't let him put me on the defensive again or I'd be stammering like an idiot like before. And I couldn't do that to her in front of them. So he goes, "Where's the Silmaril?" cool as anything, like we'd been gone a week or so. And I said, "I've got it in my hand right now," and he says, "Let's see it, then." So I hold out my hand, like so, and he gives me the evil eyebrow, and I just smiled at him and shook back my cloak and showed him my stump, and I said, "Guess you better call me 'empty-handed' after all."  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
Oh, Beren . . .  
  

Beren:  
    
I know, I know. And he says, "You want to explain that, young Man?" and I told him that the Gate-Guard of Angband bit it off and the jewel with it, and he just sort of glares at me, for a long, looong time. And then he goes, "You took my daughter where?" --Fortunately Tinuviel took over the conversation at that point, and there was a lot of guilt operating there, and she used it for all it was worth, because they actually listened to her this time. And me, afterwards -- they had them get chairs for us and it was actually civilized, when they interrogated us about what we'd been doing.   
  

Captain:  
    
You know, you seem to have a gift, or a curse, for being outrageously insolent to powerful people who mean you no good. How many times does that make?  
  
[Beren has to stop and think]  
  

Beren:  
    
There's Thingol, and Sauron, and the sons of Feanor, and Sauron again, and Thingol again, so six. Wait, I forgot about Carcaroth. That's seven.  
  

Captain:  
    
What about Morgoth? Surely helping yourself to a Silmaril should count.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but I wasn't in his face about it. He didn't even know I was there. Not like shooting him in the middle of his bodyguard, or asking him who the hell he thought he was, messing with us.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I -- I still wonder about that, if I made things worse . . . jumping in like that when he was at a loss for words, before it went to combat. But it seemed like a distraction was needed, even if we weren't supposed to say anything, and . . . but I still think about it sometimes when it gets to be around the Starless Hour, and ask myself -- did I give us away by doing that?  
  

Steward: [distant]  
    
\--No. He was playing with us from the outset. He knew we weren't what we seemed. If he hadn't, your bluff might have worked -- that's a typical power-ploy, to demand more than one's jurisdiction allows, to see how far one can push before meeting resistance.  
  

Captain:  
    
Hence the reason they say war and diplomacy are really the same thing, you know.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--And you were correct in your observations from spying on him so long that he did not in fact have authority except in times of crisis over the forces despatched to the western and eastern fronts, which at that time was not the prevailing situation. Had he not revealed that he was aware -- as we were not -- that the last "Great Chief" had been killed raiding Doriath during the time of our journey and a new one had yet to be chosen, I myself would have judged it the manifestation of internal power struggles between the Lord of Wolves and Morgoth's other field commanders -- a small gesture of authority, intended to remind them who was foremost. He might well have said, "Get out of my sight and stop wasting my time, and tell old So-and-so to train you better." Or words to that effect.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Are you sure?  
  

Steward:  
    
That it might have worked, or that he knew beforehand? -- though the one hinges upon the other.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Yeah.  
  

Steward:  
    
There is no doubt in my mind that he was aware of some discrepancies and already suspicious before we were taken. The way his questioning played out leaves no room for it. I've done the same thing myself at court, when we were alive, to draw careless adversaries into self-incrimination.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
So did he kill you? Was that the mistake you were talking about, to flout him? --Elwe Thingol, I mean, not the Abhorred One. --Now you've got me doing it too.  
  

Beren:  
    
No, I . . . he wasn't actually as angry as he was making out to be, it turned out. In the meantime Celegorm had sent him a letter which was even more obnoxious than anything I'd said so far, and he apparently decided that compared to that crew he could almost cope with the thought of me as a son-in-law, in a lesser of two evils kind of way.  
  

Fourth Guard: [amazed]  
    
Is that a joke?  
  

Beren:  
    
No, it was really bad. I didn't see it -- he had sent the scroll back under separate cover to Orodreth, which must have been interesting, and I wonder when it got there, if it was before or after they were kicked out -- but they recited the contents for us word-for-word.  
  
[pause]  
  
We're pretty sure Curufin wrote the actual thing. It was all about how they'd taken over Nargothrond and gotten us killed and if he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't try to challenge them about Luthien 'cause he was going to marry her. Um, Celegorm, not his brother. And a lot of stuff which I didn't get but Tinuviel says was about stuff that had happened in the past. So they let me stay there.  
  

Ranger:  
    
That doesn't sound particularly welcoming.  
  

Beren:  
    
Hey, I only said not quite as mad. --He was really angry before. That leaves a lot of room for variation in "not quite."  
  

Third Guard:  
    
But they let you get married.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yes.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Even though you hadn't actually brought it to him.  
  
[Beren nods]  
  

Steward:  
    
And they didn't poison you at the feast?  
  

Captain: [staring at him]  
    
Where did you come up with that notion? You're even more paranoid than I am these days.  
  

Steward:  
    
Being betrayed rather does that to one.  
  

Beren:  
    
No. No, they were completely honorable about it. I -- I think her father did understand that I was asking for help, and why, showing up without it -- even if I did phrase it as an insult. And Tinuviel just didn't let up on making them feel bad. One big factor in the guilting was that they felt really awful about us being up on the central borders after I was bit, about how she would rather live alone out in what was essentially their backyard with just Huan to help her get through the winter, rather than ask for help taking care of me, because she couldn't trust them. I think that ripped his heart out more than anything else, because it was no way I could have been controlling her, not with--  
  
[snorts]  
  
\--"spells," and not with just ordinary emotional means. There was damn all in the way of comfort for her from me during that time, and I think that made them realize how serious she was and how they'd misjudged her. Even more than her fighting the Dark Lord and his minions, which I don't think they ever really believed.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
How could they not?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, it did sound kind of improbable. And the way she told it was this very offhand, almost sarcastic way, like you might make a joke, and if you didn't know it was true you might think she was making a joke -- and you know how I tell stories. Everyone kept saying things like, "Not our little Luthien, surely!"  
  

Steward:  
    
Oh. --Dear.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, that just made her get more sarcastic. And it was kind of hard to believe, even if you were there for it, but still, I mean -- we did have Huan there with us, which we didn't before, and so forth. --I could see why she was making such a big deal out of having them call her Tinuviel. So anyway it was really long and confusing, because they kept interrupting -- not like you, of course--  
  
[the Guard on his right shoves him lightly, and he grins]  
  
\--and between her saying things like "So then I told Morgoth to shut up," and me going, "Um, I don't remember that part," every other minute, I've heard far more plausible fictions being told about stuff like what happened to the column on the porch and why we had no idea how it got all scorched like that.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Told them, too, I gather.  
  

Beren: [wide-eyed innocence]  
    
I have no idea what you're talking about, Sir.  
  

Captain: [same tone]  
    
Of course not.   
  

Beren:  
    
Like she said, it was pretty hellish at dinner -- oh wait, you weren't here then -- but it was. Her dad kept cringing every time I opened my mouth, but it turned out it's because -- well, part of it at least -- because of my accent.  
  

Ranger: [indignant]  
    
What's wrong with your accent?  
  

Beren:  
    
He said it sounded like I was mangling the words on purpose and drawling my vowels to sound affected and insolent.  
  

Steward:  
    
You can't help your native dialect.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
No . . . but I tried. And that just made it harder to talk. And then . . . then he started to make a crack about how could his nephew stand to listen to us, and then he choked off and dropped his cup and got up and walked away to where the little golden trees were and just sat down for a bit, and nobody knew what to do or say, and then he came back and pretended like nothing had happened. And then Tinuviel asked if Daeron was off sulking and couldn't even be civil, and there was this dead silence, and it turned out that was another thing I was responsible for, besides the Wolf.  
  

Warrior:  
    
What happened?  
  

Beren:  
    
He split when they were searching for her, right after she ran away, and nobody knows what happened to him. I suppose that Carcaroth might have killed him, even, but I doubt he could have stayed hid all that time if they were quartering Doriath looking for Tinuviel.  
  

First Guard:  
    
He isn't here.  
  

Third Guard: [sarcastic]  
    
Unless he's laying very low. --Again.  
  

Warrior:  
    
He'd better. If I run into him I'm going to let him have it.  
  

Beren: [softly]  
    
Guys -- you don't have to be -- so -- I'm okay. I'll be all right.  
  

Soldier:  
    
No, you're not, and yes, we do.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Though you do look a lot better now. You're more yourself.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
You know, that really is a weird expression. --How can you be more or less yourself? Either you are yourself or you're not.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
What if one of the Enemy's agents is disguised as you?  
  

Fourth Guard: [around Beren]  
    
Then that's not you.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But what if you're possessed?  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Then it isn't you yourself either.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
All right then, but suppose Morgoth has put a control on you, and you don't know it, and you're still doing what you would ordinarily do, but wouldn't you say that you were less yourself then?  
  

Captain: [to Beren]  
    
Do you really want to have another metaphysical crisis?  
  
[Beren shakes his head. To the debaters:]  
  
All right then, table this discussion. --Unless you lot would rather hear yourselves argue than find out how it ends.  
  
[they shut up]  
  

Beren:  
    
All right, where were we again?  
  

Steward:  
    
At a very unpleasant-sounding Acclamation banquet.  
  

Beren:  
    
Hoo boy, was it ever. Between me trying not to make a complete fool of myself, and Tinuviel ready to savage anyone who looked cross-eyed at me, and the Queen and King trying to be civil and not doing a real good job at it -- and the general atmosphere of panic and Doom over the whole place, and people starting to admit that maybe it wasn't all my fault after all--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--You're admitting it wasn't?  
  

Beren:  
    
Hey. Don't put words in my mouth.  
  
[Huan grins and thumps his tail on the grass and whoever is too close; Beren taps him on the top of his skull]  
  
\--Quiet, you. I mean, it wasn't like I had anything directly to do with the fact that they were sending an embassy to Himring to demand justice from Maedhros against his younger brothers, or that they had to do that because the two mad bastards kidnapped their daughter, or that she got kidnapped by them because she ran away, and she ran away with no guards or anything because they locked her up in a tree. Indirectly it was my fault because she wouldn't have done it except to help me, and Carcaroth wouldn't have been able to get through the Labyrinth after slaughtering the embassy if I hadn't given him the Silmaril--  
  

Ranger:  
    
You're making it sound like you just handed it to him.  
  

Beren: [dryly]  
    
On account of how that's essentially what I did, even if it wasn't what I was trying to do. And everyone was kind of proud that one of their own had taken down the Lord of Fetters, even if they didn't half believe it and it was only temporarily. So it was really weird. Oh, and did you know that Melian and Tinuviel's dad lived up in Dorthonion before it was called Dorthonion before anyone else lived there, when they were newlyweds?  
  
[the Ten shake their heads, looking at each other.]  
  
It's true. I'm not making that up. They started talking about that as a way of trying to make conversation with me, and it was awful, because they kept saying things like, "How did the grove we planted along the top of the cliffs turn out?" and I'd say, "you mean the forest on the pine bluffs?" and then I'd have to tell them it got burned and turned into the Nightshade, or they'd say to each other, "Remember that meadow where we used to listen to your birds?" and I'd have to tell them we put a town there, only that got burned too, or about how they lived for a few decades at the lake, on our island, not that far from where Da's buried, and Tinuviel and her mother were having some kind of staring war across the table, and I'm not sure if they were really talking, or just meaningful looks, but she seemed to think all this proved some kind of point, like "See?" and I thought the candlesticks were going to melt, the way they were glaring at each other. So that was pretty depressing, too.  
  
[sighs]  
  
And before that -- does this sound familiar or not? there was all kinds of fuss before dinner after we finished telling about our adventures about trying to make us comfortable and especially, presentable, and that just sent Tinuviel right around the bend, anyone saying anything \-- or even implying, or maybe implying anything -- about her hair or clothes or me being a mess -- I mean, Captain Strongbow just said something about how Huan must take a lot of brushing being as big as he is, and she tore into him like a rabid w--  
  
[abrupt stop]  
  

Captain: [to the two on either side of Beren]  
    
Thump him on the back, he's choking on guilt again--  
  

Beren: [hastily]  
    
\--and there was trouble about trying to find something to fit me, and me saying I didn't care if it was kids' clothes or not, or a woman's tunic, clothes are just clothes and the only thing that mattered was were they warm and I could rip the sleeves off or roll them up and nobody had to make anything special, but of course they did anyway, only it wasn't quite done in time for the feast and we did the apologizing thing and Tinuviel and her mom had a fight over her wanting to wear her old dress, sort of come-as-you-are solidarity, and she threatened to show up wearing nothing but her hair, and Melian cried, and that was -- and she said, "Why should I care, I cried enough and you didn't pay any attention," and I had to beg her to back off, so she let them fancy her up, but she was really grumpy about it, and that wasn't fun, and . . .  
  

First Guard:  
    
It sounds worse than the council disaster.  
  

Beren:  
    
It went on longer. Or at least it felt like it. I -- I was feeling so trapped, like when I was in a cave or a hole and they were beating the woods for me overhead, trying not to either panic or go into that kind of vacant way where you just step back and watch it all happen.  
  

Steward:  
    
"Fugue state."  
  

Beren:  
    
Is that the word for it?  
  

Ranger: [nodding]  
    
Comes from "being hunted."  
  

Beren:  
    
Figures. I sure felt hunted then. Anyway the conversation for obvious reasons kept working around to Carcaroth and what they were doing about him, which was organizing a massive wolf-hunt for the next day because they had finally got a good report on where he was -- you know Beleg's crazy, right? Crazier even than I am -- and especially now that they knew it was because he had the Silmaril, they really didn't want to find out if it would keep making him stronger, or wait to see if it would kill him, 'cause a lot of their Sages thought that it would probably heal him or help his healing abilities -- something like that -- at the same time as it was burning him, and there was no telling if even Menegroth's shields would keep him out. And . . . I knew I had to go because it was my fault.  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought you said that it wasn't.  
  

Beren:  
    
On the final count it was. He was.  
  

Captain:  
    
Carcaroth was your fault? Since when were you involved in summoning demons to this Circle and giving them bodies?  
  

Beren: [earnestly]  
    
Carcaroth was made to stop Huan. He wouldn't have been put there if Morgoth hadn't gotten scared hearing about how Huan destroyed Sauron's power. Huan wouldn't have tried to take on an entire fortress single-handedly--  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp bark]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Yeah, yeah, whatever -- by himself, if it wasn't for Tinuviel trying to save me. None of us would have been there if I hadn't been going for the Silmaril. Therefore it's ultimately and really my fault.  
  

Steward:  
    
What did Lady Luthien say to that argument?  
  

Beren:  
    
You don't want to know. --Trust me on that.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
You surely didn't fight on your wedding, Beren?  
  

Beren: [deadpan]  
    
Why stop then? We had an unbroken record going.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But that's bad luck!  
  

Beren:  
    
No kidding. You don't say.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [sad]  
    
That's not the way you dreamt it would be.  
  

Beren: [gloomy]  
    
It's way worse than that. She brought that up to me. --One of the things I never thought of about having a demi-goddess for a mother-in-law -- the Queen actually told her, way back--  
  
[he breaks off]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Told her what?  
  

Beren: [muttering]  
    
About how I was dreaming about her when we were in the Pit.  
  

Captain:  
    
But what's wrong with that?  
  

Beren:  
    
It--  
  

Captain:  
    
There was nothing disrespectful or inappropriate in it.  
  

Beren: [helplessly]  
    
No, but--  
  

Steward:  
    
Surely you do not imagine that your lady didn't equally dream of and long for you? Else why should she wish to wed you?  
  

Beren: [pleading]  
    
Look, I'm only mortal! I don't have Elvish attitudes about everything, and--  
  
[breaks off, wincing in humiliation]  
  

Ranger: [agreeably]  
    
Your people are strange about that. I remember someone--  
  
[to the Soldier]  
  
\--your wife belonged to that school, didn't she? -- theorized that mortals weren't supposed to be incarnates and this was one more proof that Morgoth had given them bodies, but I never believed that.  
  

Soldier: [nodding]  
    
I don't see how she could have been right about it: he was able to touch the Silmaril, after all, and if mortal flesh were inherently corrupt that oughtn't have been possible. --How come Men are so peculiar about something as normal as the conception of their own offspring? I've never understood why you all make such an issue of it, especially since you need so many of them. Why would mortal parents want to pretend to their children that they just happen along out of thin air--  
  

Ranger:  
    
\--or under rocks, don't forget under rocks--  
  
[Beren covers his face with his hand, laughing in spite of himself]  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--even when everyone knows it isn't true?  
  

First Guard: [musingly]  
    
I think for the same reason that mortal children want to pretend the same thing. It's like the time we were visiting Eithel Sirion and there was a new human guardsman there who wanted to know what the celebration was for, and we told him, and after he finished coughing and someone fetched him a new drink, it turned out he thought we were joking.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
You saying back, "You mean you don't remember it?" didn't help convince him otherwise. It was funny, but we never understood why the High King's Men would rather congratulate the Prince on his birth than his conception. It seemed like silly semantic games to me.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
We could ask Beren instead of speculating.  
  

First Guard:  
    
We could, but he'd just get even more embarrassed than he already is.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
\--Of course, I didn't ask you when your conception-day was, because by then we knew better, but I hadn't met very many mortals back when Dor-lomin was just getting started, I'd just come back from a few score on the Coast Watch.   
  
[Beren ducks down between the Sindar Ranger and the Fourth Guard, hiding against Huan's ruff]  
  

Fourth Guard: [mischievously]  
    
\--Speaking of which, when is yours?  
  
[Beren groans without looking up]  
  

Captain:  
    
He's going into a "fugue state" again -- why don't you all stop teasing him about being strange and let him finish the story?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [indignant]  
    
Beren's not strange, Sir!  
  

Fourth Guard: [reasonably]  
    
Yes, he is. He's strange even for a mortal. Perhaps especially for a mortal.  
  
[leaning way over so that he can see Beren's face a little]  
  
But we love him anyway. And we do want to know what happens next.  
  
[pause -- Beren finally lifts his forehead off Huan's neck and looks at the Guard, who smiles at him until he finally smiles back, if rather wanly.]  
  

Beren: [quiet]  
    
There's not much left. Except us getting killed.  
  

Fourth Guard: [remaining lying across Huan's back as though the Hound were a log]  
    
So are you going to tell us how that happened finally?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. It's almost over.  
  
[looks down for a moment]  
  
We rode out from Menegroth early, and we quartered the district where he was supposed to have been last, and it was really strange, being there again, because he was practically where I lived all those months, but it was so different -- the woods were so quiet, as if even the trees were afraid of him, no birds, not even any bugs around, it was spooky. When we caught up with him he went to ground in very dense cover, no way could you go in there and have a chance--  
  

Captain:  
    
Where was it?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um -- you know where the north edge of the forest is, there's those rocks where Esgalduin comes down from the plateau into a gorge?  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes. That ravine's quite narrow, but it goes back a long way.  
  

Beren:  
    
Right, and it's mostly thornbrake, with thick sedge growing in between the branches. So we staked it out, we were sure he wouldn't have the patience to stay there, since he hadn't shown any sort of reasoned behavior before according to them. But it was starting to get late in the day, and I was getting worried because if it got to be dark, all the advantage was going to be on Carcaroth's side--  
  

Captain: [bland]  
    
Out in the night with an ox-sized werewolf in rough country in a gully so steep that it's dim there even at noon -- you don't think that was a good idea?  
  

Beren: [just as innocent]  
    
\--I do have reasonable moments from time to time -- and I kept saying this, and maybe we ought to think bout trying to fire the thicket, even though that wasn't a great idea, and her dad was pointing out that the way the wind was we'd be completely blinded by the smoke as well as choked by it and it wouldn't help, either, and Huan I guess agreed about the dangers of letting it get too dark, because all of the sudden we realized that he wasn't there next to me any more, but we didn't see which way he went. And then he\--  
  
[tapping Huan's nose]  
  
\--starts baying down in the thickets, and everyone's on edge, even more that is, looking to see if we can see them, but we don't until Carcaroth busts out on our side and comes rushing up the hill towards us with Huan hot on his tail, and he's going too fast for any of the watchers to catch up with him, I think maybe someone hit him with an arrow but it didn't slow him any more than a charging boar, and most of them went wild, and he didn't seem to know which of us he was going after, me or Thingol, but then he goes for her dad and I tried to block him like he was a boar,  
  
[gesturing]  
  
\--but I fumbled it and he grabbed me and shook me like a hare and then Huan jumps on him and he drops me and they start fighting like a mortal dog going after a bear, so loud it made rockfalls come down where the waterfall was, and the echoes keep bouncing back overhead until I thought I was going deaf, and other people start running up to us but no one can get near the fight, and Thingol doesn't answer them when they're asking him if he's hurt, he doesn't tell them it's mine, it's like he doesn't even hear them -- he just keeps staring at me, holding my hand, like he's trying to ask me something, only he can't, or like he knows I'm dying and doesn't want to say it.  
  

Huan:  
    
[loud whines]  
  

First Guard: [upset]  
    
Didn't you take Curufin's mail? Weren't you wearing it?  
  
[Beren reaches over Huan's head and pulls back the Hound's lip, revealing his fangs.]  
  

Beren:  
    
Two or more times bigger than that? And jaw strength to go with it? I might as well have been wearing just a gambeson.  
  
[He grabs Huan's lower jaw and wrestles gently with his head, as if the Hound were a puppy (though a puppy the size of a Kodiak bear)]  
  
Only difference it made was making it harder for them to to start treating me.  
  
[winces and headshaking all around]  
  
Poor Huan comes staggering over all stiff-legged to us and lies down next to me, and he's all torn up, and he tells me . . .  
  
[he trails off, stroking the Hound's ears. Sadly:]  
  
\--You were right about us having the same Doom. --Then Mablung opened up Carcaroth and that's when they saw how badly the Silmaril had burnt him inside, I heard them talking about it, but he still risked reaching in to take it, because he didn't want me not to have fulfilled my promise because of his fault. Even if it didn't really matter anymore. He -- I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to know him better.  
  

Captain: [quietly]  
    
Mablung's a good Elf -- wise and fair-minded as well as brave. Thingol has some excellent people working for him.  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
Yeah. Beleg too. The one thing that really freaked them was that apparently my hand was still locked around the stone--  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
After all that time?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. It didn't evaporate until he touched it, and then it was just gone, bones and everything, like the jewel was keeping it there.  
  

Steward:  
    
But it burned the Wolf.  
  

Beren:  
    
Weird, huh? So he brought it over to me really quick, and put it in my hand and held my arm so that I could give it to her father, and he didn't even look at it, he just kept looking at me, and going, --Why? Then they made a stretcher for both of us and carried us back to Menegroth . . . I was glad they put me next to him, even if he couldn't feel it . . . I could almost pretend it was like old times, out in the woods.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Was Thingol glad?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Not at all. Nobody was.  
  

Steward:  
    
I imagine he was rather relieved at the outcome, nevertheless.  
  

Beren:  
    
No. He -- he did change, even before. He was really upset when he heard about Curufin shooting me.  
  

Fourth Guard: [scratching Huan's ribs while he talks]  
    Yes, but you said he was shooting at the Princess. Don't you think that was the reason?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [deliberately]  
    
It would have been easy -- very easy -- to let me die, then. And he did everything he could, to get me back to her, alive. It wasn't his fault that she couldn't heal me.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Couldn't they have gotten you back faster? Why couldn't he have taken you up before him and ridden the distance in a quarter of the time?  
  

Captain:  
    
Good point. Why didn't he?  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir -- I had a collapsed lung. It wasn't -- just the poison. And all kinds of crushed ribs and things torn from when he shook me and -- they hardly dared to move me onto the stretcher. It's like the problem of do you pull an arrow or not if it's poisoned but an artery's nicked and you can't cauterize it then and there. If they jostled me it might of made the bleeding worse.  
  
[pause]  
  
And there was something wrong here--  
  
[touching his sternum]  
  
\--and in my back. It -- I shouldn't have lasted an hour. 


	11. Scene II - part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  

Captain:  
    
But you did make it back to her.  
  
[Beren nods]  
  

Beren:  
    
I was barely managing to keep breathing -- again, it didn't really hurt, not all that much, they weren't letting me suffer if they could help it, it was just that it took so much effort -- like rolling a big chunk of fieldstone when it's just you and nobody else, each time you get it over you think, "That's it, that's the last one, I can't do this again --" and then you fling yourself at it again until it goes over again, just a little bit farther. And then we were there, and -- it was strange, 'cause I shouldn't have been able to see anything, by then, I could barely see the flames of the torches around, but I could see her, and everyone else, like the way I see you now, but her the brightest, even brighter than the stone, and there was light in the trees as well, especially in the big one, and I don't know if I was just hallucinating or what. It didn't feel like it.  
  
[pause -- the Ten exchange significant looks]  
  

Captain:  
    
You need to tell the King about that. It sounds like it means something important, but I'm not entirely sure what.  
  

Steward:  
    
I concur.  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh--okay.  
  
[pause]  
  

Third Guard: [gently]  
    
Can you please finish?  
  

Beren:  
    
She came up to us and put one hand on each of us and looked at me, and I tried to tell her -- everything -- I was sorry, and for her not to be unhappy, and it wasn't her fault she couldn't save me this time -- but I couldn't, I -- I didn't have words any more, and she just said, "I know. I love you too." And she told me to wait for her here, and then she kissed me. And then it didn't hurt . . . it was just . . . strange . . . I was pulled along -- whatever I was -- in the wind like a leaf in Fall -- I couldn't even have thought of resisting if I'd wanted to. And when I'd gotten here I . . . I just waited in the dark. That was the only thing I could do, until Huan came for me and started taking care of me, and things started coming back. And these people I couldn't really see -- they were just lights and voices, but that might have just been me -- they kept coming and asking me what I was doing, or what I thought I was doing, and telling me to move, and I couldn't do what they wanted because I had to wait.  
  
[he breaks off, sounding very frayed at the recollection. Huan leans up and shoves his nose in Beren's ear, keening. Into Huan's fur:]  
  
Good boy. --You're my good boy.  
  
[to the Ten:]  
  
I'm sorry. I'm acting so stupid about it.  
  
[long silence]  
  

Steward:  
    
We weren't alone. --Except for him.  
  
[nodding towards the Soldier]  
  

Soldier: [shaking his head]  
    
That was only a little while. And Lady Nia was with me for most of it.  
  

Beren: [wiping his eyes]  
    
So . . . you're really all right? I know he said, but . . .  
  

Steward:  
    
We've no complaints.  
  
[several of the Ten exchange ironic Looks at that]  
  

Soldier: [smiling at Beren]  
    
Especially not now.  
  

Captain:  
    
It's too quiet, but that's all. After the Gaurhoth, we're not inclined to gripe about the scenery being dull or the subdued quality of experience here.  
  

Beren: [glancing up at the shadowy vaulting]  
    
I thought maybe I was missing things, but it sounds like it really isn't all that much more, uh, detailed, than what I can make out.  
  

Ranger: [looking over at the Soldier]  
    
We had a bet going that it was boring on purpose so that people won't malinger, but that turned out not to be the case.  
  

Beren:  
    
And Finrod isn't bored crazy by it?  
  

Captain:  
    
He's a very hard person to bore. When it gets dull he comes up with something interesting to do.   
  

Third Guard:  
    
And then no one's bored. Though it usually means we get into trouble.  
  

Beren:  
    
You seem so -- unfazed by the idea now.  
  

Soldier: [shrugs]  
    
What are they going to do? Lady Vaire lectures us, or Lord Namo lectures us, or they both give us disappointed looks, and we apologize, and it's fine till next time. There's not much of a big deal about it any more.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [quietly]  
    
\--At least not for you.  
  

Captain:  
    
I haven't noticed you remaining non-participant in any of his schemes.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [frowning at his commander]  
    
\--Of course not.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, then. But it is true, many people are much more upset at getting scolded than we are, and much more worried that some unnamed something is going to happen to them.  
  

Beren:  
    
Has it ever?  
  

Captain:  
    
Aside from being told to go away and think about things until one is fit for Elven society again? Not often. Or ever.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Except for us.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Yes, but we're insane. Everyone knows that.  
  

Beren: [worried]  
    
What happened to you guys?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Lady Vaire lost her temper.  
  

Beren:  
    
And?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
She yelled. And broke a lamp. Though that was by accident, she was pounding against the door frame and didn't look.  
  

Beren:  
    
That's it?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
That's it.  
  

Captain:  
    
But you must understand, the Weaver has never, ever lost her temper in the entire course of earth's history. No one -- including the demigods who work here -- can remember her raising her voice. Or banging on things. It was very distressing.  
  

Steward:  
    
Though the circumstances were rather amusing. The timing of it, at the least.  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought you didn't think any of it was funny.  
  

Steward:  
    
There is a difference between being amused and howling like a loon.  
  

Beren:  
    
What was funny about it?  
  

Captain:  
    
Certain persons were taking exception to our attitude, and --  
  

Beren:  
    
What's wrong with your attitude?  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, we don't know how to behave at all. We sing ridiculous songs --  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--And make jokes.  
  

Steward: [pointedly]  
    
\--And a few individuals have been known to use deeply offensive language from time to time.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
And we haven't gone through the normal stages of "denial" and "anger" and "resignation" and "acceptance."  
  

Captain:  
    
Though someone seems to be stuck at resignation.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
I mean, what's to deny? "No, I didn't get eaten by a wolf-demon?" And little point in being angry about it now, is there?  
  

Ranger:  
    
We occasionally use weird sentence constructions and peculiar expressions picked up from some backwoods barbarians we met in the North Country.  
  

First Guard:  
    
And all in all we're a strange and incomprehensible and uncouth lot, and a bad example to the rest.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--But according to certain core members of the sort-of following of Feanor, we're also pathetic pets and grovelling lackeys of the Powers, which is why we're so repellently cheerful and unconcerned about the things they stress over.  
  

Warrior:  
    
\--Like who interrupted whom in front of whomever else, back before they were exiled to Formenos. I mean, really -- that was over five hundred years ago, and some of the people they're talking about are still in Beleriand, so they can't speak for themselves, and who really gives a damn, any more, anyways? --Criminetlies!!  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Which obscure mortal idiom would be taken as a pointed insult, and I'd probably have to end up skewering someone before the conversation was over, if I'd said that. So there was nattering along that vein, and His Majesty was continuing to play and pretending not to hear any of it, and I'd taken my blade and put it on the table, as a little reminder, because sooner or later Himself ignoring it was going to push someone's temper past flashpoint and I don't consider it drawing first to simply point out that I'm there, I'm paying attention, and if you lay a discourteous hand on him I'm going to chop it off.  
  

Steward:  
    
The High King hates it when you do that, you know.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but he hates it even more when I hit offenders with the board or the pieces, or the table. Lesser of evils and so forth. Besides, what really irritates him is when I make suggestions as to what he should have done to win. And right at that moment the Lady of the Halls storms in like the wrath of Osse shouting "Finrod Ingold Finarfinion, WHAT have you done to my house?!?" A number of people vanished right then and there, and the ones who wanted to stay and see us get into trouble made themselves scarce when glass started breaking. And Himself shouts back, "I did what you told me to do!" and they go back and forth for a bit until milady hit the sconce trying to emphasize the point that we were to leave the walls alone, supporting walls or not.  
  

Beren:  
    
I see what you mean about the timing.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then she became extremely upset, and the King offered to try to fix it for her, and she threw the bits at us and left.  
  

Beren:  
    
Ouch.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, matters worsened after that. When people started coming back to see if we'd been thrown in the dungeon -- there isn't one, but try convincing anyone of that by logical means like maps --  
  

Fourth Guard: [scratching Huan between the shoulderblades]  
    
\--Though she could make one, I suppose, if we bother her enough--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--the Lady came back as well and saw that we'd made a basin to stop the dew from running all over the floor and that Himself was not only trying to mend it but had gotten a few of the smaller breaks back together, and she kneels down next to us and starts apologizing for losing her temper and finishes fixing the lamp, and he apologizes in turn, and tries to convince her to let him keep on working on it, and this goes on until it's almost as annoying as you two, and they parted company ruffled and exasperated but not furious.  
  

Beren:  
    
That doesn't sound like grovelling, though. Not really. That's kind of like a border dispute, when you both claim it's really your fault.  
  
[pause]  
  
I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. I didn't want to usurp his authority.  
  

Captain:  
    
There is truth in your words, though. It does become a contest of pride and will. Not that anyone in the present company knows anything about that.  
  

Beren:  
    
So why does he just stick around for them to insult him?  
  

Captain:  
    
That doesn't happen as often any more, I must confess.  
  

Ranger: [innocent]  
    
Can't imagine why, Sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
But it's hard to hide here, if you don't want to be invisible and inaudible and blend into the background. The more -- interesting one is, the more other people tend to cluster 'round, just to see what will happen next. Or to ask advice, or his opinion, or just to listen to him talk about things.  
  

Steward:  
    
That, too, is little different from the world Outside.  
  

Captain:  
    
He isn't really cut out to be a hermit, however much he might like to pretend to himself that he is.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope.  
  
[he suddenly shivers and looks around a bit wildly]  
  

Captain:  
    
What?  
  

Beren: [low voice]  
    
I think there's someone else in the room. But I can't see anyone.  
  

Captain:  
    
Very likely.  
  

Beren:  
    
You can't tell?  
  

Captain:  
    
No more than you. Not if they choose to remain thus.  
  
[softly, to the room at large]  
  
\--You're welcome to join us, you know. We're not as dangerous as everyone says we are--  
  

Warrior:  
    
\--though twice as crazy--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--don't listen to him, it's thrice -- but you're just as welcome to stay as you are. --All of you.  
  

Beren:  
    
How many could there be?  
  
[the Ten shrug]  
  
\--But there could be other \-- ghosts, here.  
  

Steward:  
    
You needn't fear them.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm not -- Okay. I am.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
It's stupid, but I-- I'm still mortal. I still have those old superstitions, even if I am one now.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [troubled]  
    
Are you afraid of us?  
  

Beren: [snorting]  
    
Of course not!  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
Sometimes they are spies and mean us ill. It doesn't matter. We have nothing to hide, they won't find any discreditable murders in our pasts, and there aren't any secret "tricks" to our winning: it's a few hundred years more of hard fighting and training together combined with in-depth analysis of the situations.   
  

Steward:  
    
Most of them are simply unready. Occasionally they join us, at least for a little, and it does them good.  
  

Captain:  
    
And us.  
  
[Beren gives him a bemused look]  
  
The King was utterly shattered when he arrived -- the thought of you being reserved for prolonged torment as a result of his mistakes was more than he could bear. Lady Nia was the only one who could get through to him, and even that was just bringing him to the point where he was willing to talk, not moving beyond that. He spent most of the time insubstantial, or nearly so, and if any of us tried to reach him when he wasn't, he'd vanish. --Until the news came of your escape.  
  

Steward:  
    
We were speaking of matters -- and of yourself, milord -- and much to my astonishment I was seized by someone who had not been manifest but a moment previously and it demanded of me to tell, at once, whether indeed it was of yourself we were conversing. And after the initial shock had passed and the confused account set somewhat in order, we hastened to find our lord and inform him.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [half-smile]  
    
What he's not saying is that he almost shoved the Lady right out of the way and quite forgot to apologize after. I've never seen anyone rattle him the way you do. --Sorry, I didn't mean to break in.  
  

Steward:  
    
Of course not -- you never even notice that you're doing so.  
  

Captain: [encouraging]  
    
Keep going.  
  

Steward:  
    
Why? You'll merely interrupt again in another sentence or two.  
  
[the Captain grimaces and shakes his head]  
  

Captain:  
    
All right, then. --So Edrahil catches hold of him by the shoulders shouting, "He's safe -- it's all right, he's safe," and Himself, too surprised to disappear, hears this and says, "Perhaps she'll forgive me, then," and we're trying to explain that it isn't what he thinks, and that takes a bit, and then a little longer for him to grasp it, and then all of the sudden he's back, and he says, "Well then, I suppose I should leave off mourning and go pay my respects to the Lord and Lady of the Halls and then to my kindred. But not, I think, like this, or they'll think I'm a most confused Wild Man," and Edrahil says, "Oh, I doubt that very much -- I understand the Laughing Folk are far more particular about their appearance," and--  
  

Steward:  
    
I did not\--  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, you did.  
  

Steward: [piqued]  
    
Not like that.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, I can't quite do that tone of yours, it's inimitable. And he bursts out laughing and says, "Help me get presentable, then, will you?" and had him braid his hair the way Lady Earwen used to, in the Teler fashion, or as close as we could remember it, and attired himself after the manner that was his habit when visiting her parents, in Alqualonde, and had word sent to Lord Namo and Lady Vaire that he was ready to speak to them.  
  

Beren:  
    
That sounds like it's supposed to be some kind of statement. Is it?  
  

Captain: [nodding]  
    
He's gotten over his guilt about the Kinslaying entirely.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Getting killed for it seems to have thoroughly exorcised it, for all of us.  
  
[quietly]  
  
\--It hurt so much seeing him like that and not being able to do anything . . . we were afraid he'd stay that way until you had to be dead, one way or another.  
  

Steward:  
    
Meeting and speaking with those of the Kinslain who are still here has helped as well, I think. And so we went out to meet those who are here, and he shone so brightly that some thought him Eonwe come to bear word from Taniquetil, and all were astonished when he came to pay respect to his uncle, for none had the slightest notion he -- or we -- had even arrived here, for the duration of his time in sorrow. His spirit dimmed with the Lady Amarie's refusal, --but your coming has given him more heart than even the organization of the Battles.  
  
[Beren looks away, embarrassed]  
  

Beren: [changing the subject]  
    
How did he send her messages, anyway? I thought no one could leave here. I mean, except being sent by Lord Mandos.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, the people who work here can.  
  

Beren:  
    
People?  
  

Captain:  
    
The Powers are people, don't you agree?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, yeah, of course -- but -- he didn't have Mandos himself running errands for him, did he?!?  
  

Captain:  
    
Of course not. I think he asked one of the security staff to deliver it on the way to Everwhite. It might have been one of Lady Vaire's spinners.  
  

Ranger: [respectful but unhesitating]  
    
No, sir, it was the Weaver's handmaiden who brought the reply back. Remember? She was very apologetic about bearing bad news.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
You're making it sound like the -- the Ainur? -- are hearthguards and maidservants going on holiday and visiting their families and gossiping. Just like a great hall's household back home.  
  
[silence]  
  
\--Because it's like that?  
  
[nods all round]  
  
Heh.  
  
[shakes his head, laughing at himself.]  
  
Okay. Who's Eonwe? I'm trying to remember and I just can't. Is he the guy who makes storms?  
  

Soldier:  
    
No, that's Osse. Eonwe's the chief royal courier of the gods. Kind of like Lord Edrahil only not as particular about everything.  
  
[the Steward sighs]  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. --Now, when you say, "his uncle," you mean the late High King, right? Not Feanor? I've been assuming that's what you meant, but . . .  
  

Captain:  
    
Since Feanor doesn't want to acknowledge the rest of his family, and since nobody ever sees him anyway, it's simpler just to distinguish them that way.  
  

Beren:  
    
Why doesn't anyone see him? Is -- is he kept locked up?  
  

Warrior:  
    
He refuses to mingle with us lesser beings. We don't merit his condescension.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
\--And he's a raving lunatic.  
  

Steward:  
    
Even his most loyal followers have had to accept that the eldest son of Finwe inhabits a world entirely of his own construction which bears very little resemblance to the Arda that the rest of us have experienced. A small group -- not coincidentally the same that are most vehemently aggressive towards our lord -- persist in maintaining that it is merely the height of his genius and the depth of his griefs which keep him isolated in his meditations, beyond the ability of mere Eldar to comprehend, though one rather doubts that they fully believe it; but the rest have resigned themselves to the situation which obtained in Beleriand, where absent their respective lords, they acknowledge the headship of the High King and do as they please.  
  

Captain:  
    
Except for the others -- sorry.  
  

Steward: [austere]  
    
I was about to say -- Saving those who have attached themselves to the following of Felagund, or would, did he choose to engage in such rituals of authority, and not hold them empty forms and to no purpose.  
  

Beren:  
    
Now I'm getting confused again. --Still.  
  

Steward:  
    
Since we are dead, and no longer in Middle-earth, he asserts that it is futile for him to name himself King, and will not claim the title. Yet all award it to him regardless.  
  

Beren:  
    
And people do what he says. Sounds like he's still King.  
  

Steward:  
    
It grows complicated, because in the past decade those of his and his brothers' followings who came at the Sudden Flame have attached themselves to the following of Fingolfin -- yet, on the other hand, that is in essence the selfsame circumstance that prevailed in Beleriand. So now that he is here, many would resume their earlier ordering, -- yet again, he will not claim it, in part because he wishes no strife with his uncle, and it is a small trouble between them that so many -- even of the High King's own following -- incline to ask him first for advice, since Fingolfin has little inclination for anything saving the chess-table.  
  

Beren:  
    
So he's pretending that he's just an ordinary citizen of the Halls like anyone else, and you're claiming that he's still the King and you're still his vassals -- and most people agree with you all. Even a bunch of the Feanorians.  
  

Steward:  
    
Concisely and correctly put.  
  

Beren: [not asking]  
    
That's why, isn't it? That's the real reason the Feanorians -- or some of them -- are so angry at him, isn't it. Because he's taken over again without even trying. Or wanting to.  
  

Captain:  
    
Nail on the head, lad. The mind that comes up with short-notice plans for heisting a Silmaril or three isn't likely to rest content in idleness, and he can't help but tangle everyone else along after him, either for or against. That's the real issue -- that he's shaken everything up, and and not everyone is happy about it.  
  
[pause. Wistful:]  
  
\--Would it have worked?  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry, what have worked--?  
  

Captain:  
    
The plan -- could it have been possible to carry it out, do you think?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  
[pause]  
  
You know, I'm still not sure. I -- it was hard to observe much when we were there, we had to focus on what we were doing and, and . . . it was so strange, I -- I really couldn't tell you. Maybe. It certainly would have a better chance of working than a frontal assault, on account of how that would have no chance whatsoever.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't think so? Not even with a concerted effort by the Armies?  
  

Beren: [earnestly]  
    
When the guy loses his temper, earthquakes happen. This is definitely not someone you want to be around indoors if you're getting him mad. --And the place was full of Balrogs!!!  
  

First Guard:  
    
How many?  
  

Beren: [thinking]  
    
Er, four?  
  
[defensive]  
  
\--They take up a lot of space.  
  

Warrior:  
    
One Balrog is too much. At a distance.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [softly]  
    
I ran. I lost my bow.  
  

Ranger:  
    
You threw it away to pick up Halmir.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [bleak]  
    
It didn't do any good.  
  

Ranger:  
    
That wasn't your fault. How many times has he told you that? Get over it!  
  
[the Sindar Ranger looks away, biting his lip. Huan stretches over and licks his hand, begging for a nose-scratch, until he gets it. To Beren:]  
  
I don't understand why you felt you had to go to Menegroth after all. Not after you recovered.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Because I couldn't take care of myself, let alone Tinuviel.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Why not?  
  

Beren: [gesturing with his right arm]  
    
Like this? How much use is a one-handed ranger? I can't shoot, I can barely climb -- I can't even use a sword or a spear properly now--  
  

Ranger: [trying to be helpful]  
    
But couldn't you have switched to your left hand? You couldn't use a shield, but if you were fast enough -- you must have trained with either hand in the past?  
  

Beren: [almost shouting]  
    
Look, I couldn't do it, okay? I'm not bloody Maedhros, dammit! My balance was all off and I--  
  
[he stops abruptly. There is a shocked silence]  
  

Captain: [carefully]  
    
I don't remember anyone here saying a word about Feanor's eldest.  
  
[Beren looks away, biting his lip]  
  
Sounds like someone has, though.  
  

Beren: [ragged]  
    
Things have been rough these past few weeks. She said -- and I tried but -- and I said -- and--  
  
[he breaks off]  
  

Captain:  
    
Lad, it's more likely that someday they'll be comparing Maedhros to you.  
  
[Beren snorts at that suggestion]  
  
\--You went into Angband of your own will. You didn't turn into a gibbering wreck at your first sight of Balrogs, plural. You got one of the Silmarils, and if circumstances hadn't ambushed you you'd have gotten all of them. You got out of Angband alive. --And you're human.  
  

Beren:  
    
I was rescued. And I lost the stone. And I shouldn't have done it given what happened.  
  

Captain:  
    
Regardless -- you recovered a Silmaril. None of us in the whole span of time since the Return can make such a claim. Whatever else happened after -- nothing can take that away.  
  

Beren:  
    
She did it all mostly -- and Huan. I can't claim any credit.  
  
[Huan makes a grumbling sound and looks sad]  
  

Captain:  
    
Would they have done it if it weren't for you?  
  
[Beren rests his forehead on Huan's neck]  
  

Beren: [muffled]  
    
I should have been in the cairn with Da and the others.  
  

Captain: [musing]  
    
You know, you used to say that all the time, and I always wondered -- who were you thinking was going to bury you? Because you realize, if you'd been killed by the strike team, you wouldn't have been able to bury yourself. That never made sense to me.  
  
[Silence --Beren straightens and gives him a Look]  
  
\--Well?  
  

Beren: [annoyed]  
    
It was a figure of speech.  
  

Captain: [nodding]  
    
Ah. I see. Metaphorical and so forth.  
  
[Beren abruptly reaches out his hand]  
  

Beren: [through gritted teeth]  
    
\--Would you pass me that bottle?  
  
[as he takes a pull from the canteen the Captain reaches over and jogs his elbow, hard]  
  

Captain: [innocently]   
    
So is it real, or not?  
  
[spluttering, Beren nods, wiping his face on his sleeve.]  
  

Ranger:  
    
I don't know if that was a good idea, Sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, I'm safe, he's feeling far too guilty to try anything back right now.  
  
[Beren tries to say something, but is still choking too much to be intelligible]  
  

Ranger:  
    
\--That's what I meant, Sir.  
  
[but Beren only grins, partly coughing and partly laughing now, as he braces the flask against his knee and works the cap back on with his remaining hand]  
  

Steward: [ignoring the silliness]  
    
What is the reason behind the difficulties that are being raised over your remaining here with Her Highness of Doriath? Or have any been given?  
  

Beren: [between coughs]  
    
Because I'm not supposed to be here. It's against the law. --Is there anyone else in history who's been declared outlaw by the Powers on both sides?  
  

Captain:  
    
But you're not causing any trouble. --Unlike certain other residents.  
  
[glances at the Steward]  
  
Including, yes, ourselves.  
  

Beren: [passing the flask back]  
    
Not like starting small indoor wars, no, but they were really put out with me -- with us -- for staking out a pillar in the hallway and refusing to move until she came.  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--Perhaps we wore out their patience for people holding vigils in the corridor?  
  

Captain:  
    
But you waiting quietly in a corner doesn't seem to be much in the way of problems!  
  

Steward:  
    
I doubt that that is presently the source of the difficulty, however much it might have negatively influenced attitudes towards Lord Beren from the outset.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
It's the Law. They kept saying things like, "You're human, and you're dead -- you don't belong in the world any more, go home!" I felt like a stray dog that had wandered into somebody's house to sit by the fire -- at least nobody threw any kindling-wood at me.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That's like me.  
  

Beren: [bewildered]  
    
Why you?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Not on, like you -- but back.  
  
[Beren still looks confused]  
  
I don't want to be reborn in Beleriand.  
  
[Beren just looks at him. A bit defensively:]  
  
And it isn't that I'm afraid of what could happen to me -- I don't want to lose everyone, and forget.  
  
[he glances around at them, a little embarrassed, but resolute. The other nine look sympathetic, but also a bit resigned.]  
  

Beren:  
    
But that's the land that belongs to your people. You don't mind giving that up?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [stubbornly]  
    
These are my people. This is where I belong.  
  

Warrior: [trying to reassure]  
    
You know, I think you're worrying about nothing. I don't think they even know you're here. No one's said anything to you, have they?  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, they know all right. They're just choosing not to be aware of it, because then they don't have to do anything about it. --Like the time that Lieutenant Telumnar refused to accept that no, he could not in fact fire all the way across the Ginglith at that point and that the enemy patrols were well aware of it, until he'd wasted all his ammunition shooting over -- into -- the gorge, and then after you'd all let him panic for a bit everyone contributed a couple of arrows so that Supply wouldn't notice anything outside of Normal Use requisitions.  
  

Ranger: [astounded]  
    
You knew about that? --We -- thought you didn't know, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Of course I -- didn't know about it. If I had, I would have had to take Official Notice and say tiresome things about it. Instead, you got a useful problem-solving exercise and Telumnar got a valuable lesson, namely, don't assume that the same conditions of terrain apply everywhere in Arda, and listen to the people who've been dealing with it longer, even if they are younger than you.  
  
[pause -- the Youngest Ranger mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Told you so--"]  
  
Too bad that he had to learn that lesson repeatedly. I swear the High King shoved him off on us to cut down on their own casualties. Who was it -- wasn't he the same idiot who got one of those foolish things in Dor-lomin and didn't realize it wouldn't last?  
  
[deafening silence]  
  
Oh. Don't tell me you were all stupid enough to do that? You're not supposed to have little bits of soot or whatever under your skin -- couldn't you have guessed that it would work its way out in a yen or less? I suppose Telumnar was the only one who made a fuss about the whole affair. It figures.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
What are those things called? The designs they do with pins?  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Tattoos? That was something they used to do in Hithlum. It was considered kind of barbaric by my great-grandparents' day.  
  

Captain: [nods]  
    
That would be about the right time. Personally, I never enjoyed getting stitched up so much that I'd voluntarily have sharp pointed objects stuck in me for no good reason, but I suppose there's no accounting for -- stupidity.  
  
[the others groan and roll their eyes. Enter two Elven shades, both sharing a strongly similar air of confidence, not arrogance per se, but an assumption of command and belonging, as well as a family resemblance. After glancing around and determining that no Powers are to be seen, they stride over to the group. The Ten rise respectfully, Beren following their example, but there are worried expressions on many faces as they come down off the hill.]  
  

Steward: [bowing]  
    
My lords.  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
\--Who are they?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [also whispering]  
    
Trouble.  
  
[the newcomers stand with folded arms, giving the Ten looks of impatience, annoyance and dislike. Jude Law and Ethan Hawke (Gattaca) might be cast as these siblings.]  
  

Angrod:  
    
What is going on? Has anyone got the least inkling of a clue? Or is this just the usual muddle of rumour, guesswork, and half-truths being passed off as information?  
  

Aegnor: [staring at the Hill]  
    
And what in Arda is this mess? Are you trying to get yourselves thrown out after all?  
  

Captain: [to Angrod]  
    
Your Highness, I take offense at that. My people have always been scrupulous in distinguishing between certainty, uncertainty, and conjecture.  
  

Angrod: [nastily]   
    
For all the good it did you.  
  
[Aegnor sees Beren and freezes]  
  

Captain:  
    
Sir, for the respect I hold your brother, I will not challenge nor accept challenge of you, and you know it.  
  

Aegnor: [flatly]  
    
Starless Grinding Ice. It's him.  
  

Angrod:  
    
So where is my brother, then? --Who?  
  

Captain:  
    
He went to find the King your uncle, but--  
  

Aegnor: [snarl]  
    
\--Him.  
  
[Angrod turns in mid-snap and stops, open-mouthed, the look of exasperation changing to equal parts surprise & revulsion]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Ah. What in the name of Morgoth is -- he \--  
  
[shaking his head in dismay]  
  
\--doing here?!  
  

Beren:  
    
Um--  
  

Captain: [giving no ground]  
    
He's dead.  
  

Angrod:  
  
    
\--He's also mortal, if that information has somehow also escaped your notice.  
  

Captain: [pleasantly]  
    
Really? You don't say. --He's also married to your cousin, which is a complicating factor.  
  
[stunned silence]  
  

Angrod: [flat]  
    
Your sense of humour has not been improved by your too-brief sojourn here.  
  

Captain:  
    
No jest at all, my lord.  
  
[the brothers look at each other, still unsure, and then back at the Ten, and then at Beren, then at the Captain]  
  

Angrod:  
    
What do you mean, "married"--?  
  

Captain:  
    
What is usually meant by the word, of course.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
You are joking.  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
Far from it.  
  
[Aegnor turns a blazing look on Beren]  
  

Angrod:  
    
You mean to say this -- mortal \-- dared to claim her after all that's transpired?  
  

Captain:  
    
Milords, he can hardly be blamed for the accident of his birth.  
  

Angrod:  
    
He can be blamed for everything else. --For killing my brother.  
  
[Beren cringes; the two other Rangers silently move in in a protective angle, flanking him, ready to pull him back inside the safety of the group if it gets any uglier]  
  
\--For daring to set greedy and lustful hands on the noblest lady of our people -- if not black magic as well.  
  

Captain: [sharply]  
    
\--Now then, my lord. Whatever your feelings on the affair, you have no right to denigrate the love between the Beoring and her Highness.  
  

Angrod: [grimly]  
    
They aren't like us. They change their mates as easily as we would our cloaks. If you're going to call the relations of Men "love," you might as well speak of the "weddings" of cattle!  
  
[simultaneously with the other two replying, almost together, Aegnor clears his throat and his brother looks briefly shamefaced]  
  

Captain:  
    
Unjust, sir, as well as untrue, and unworthy of--  
  

Beren: [upset]  
    
\--No, I love Tinuviel. Not just her voice, not just her body, not just her soul -- I love her. And I always will.  
  
[quiet voice]  
  
And I didn't want the King to die because of me, even though it was my fault.  
  

Angrod: [addressing Beren for the first time]  
    
Then why didn't you kill yourself at once before involving him, and spare everyone the catastrophe of your existence?  
  
[Beren flinches back and the Rangers step forward, protectively. Huan gets up from where he is lying on the hill and growls, a long, low, warning snarl, his hackles rising. The Princes are given pause.]  
  

Steward:  
    
Your Highness, I believe you twain were seeking your brother --  
  

Angrod:  
    
And I believe, sir, that you have no idea where he is.  
  

Steward:  
    
As you were informed, he is seeking after your uncle -- and, one presumes, endeavoring to evade the wrath of Lady Amarie meanwhile.  
  
[pause]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Don't tell me Amarie's dead, too.  
  

Steward:  
    
No: merely, as has been given to me to understand, intensely furious with my lord for having gotten himself killed and having left her -- in that order of precedence and not of chronology, needless to say -- and with everyone else remotely connected with those two incidents. I much misdoubt any more clemency upon -- us -- than was granted on that Night in Tirion.  
  
[the brothers share a wary look]  
  
I do recollect her words to you as well as I recall mine own receivéd reproaches -- as, surely, does she. Perhaps you would wish to fortify your minds in preparation of response, anticipating a resumption where we all left off, with I am sure additional grievances as yet unanticipated . . . because the Lady is said to be seeking the recourse of this place's Powers, and it's most likely that her path shall find her here.  
  
[Aegnor gives a disgusted snort, but Angrod looks somewhat more uncertain -- it would seem that the memories of the fight are not diminished or pleasant. After a brief hesitation they pull themselves together and stride out -- but not without a parting shot:]  
  

Aegnor: [over his shoulder, to Beren]  
    
\--Edain.  
  
[Beren recoils as if slapped, closing his eyes. There is a long silence after the sons of Finarfin have gone.]  
  

Beren: [softly]  
    
They were my heroes when I was a kid.  
  

Captain:  
    
It is not your fault, lad. They would be as angry if it were only us without you here.  
  
[but there are uncertain looks exchanged around them.]  
  

Beren:  
    
How did they know who I was?  
  

Captain: [half-smile]  
    
You're so obviously a Beoring to anyone who's known your people. The Princes knew your father, uncle and cousins, and your grandfather, and -- And the rest of your family, going way back. There's no mistaking you.  
  
[sighing]  
  
Not to mention that -- unfortunately -- there isn't anyone else left that you could be.  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
They knew all my ancestors -- and then they died fighting for our country -- and I lose it all, and get him killed. Actually, considering -- they were a lot more polite than they could have been. Considering.  
  

Steward:  
    
It -- is more complicated than that. --Considerably.  
  
[The Captain gives the Steward a long, meaningful look over Beren's head]  
  

Beren:  
    
How? What could be worse than that?  
  

Steward: [ignoring the Captain's silent plea]  
    
Our lord's brother -- that is, Prince Aegnor -- was once in love with a lady of your people.  
  
[Beren looks from him to the others, realizes that this is completely serious]  
  

Beren: [stunned]  
    
A mortal?  
  
[the Elf-lord nods]  
  
What happened? Did she die?  
  

Steward:  
    
Not then.  
  

Beren:  
    
So -- what was it? --Did her family forbid it?  
  

Steward:  
    
Whether they would have objected or no, it never reached the point where such a question would have arisen.  
  

Beren:  
    
Did his? But -- their father wasn't here, he didn't come over with you, so who?  
  
[The youngest Ranger starts to say something but doesn't quite manage before Beren starts talking again, and subsides]  
  
Wait -- Finrod was head of the House -- H--He didn't tell them they couldn't, don't say that--  
  

Steward:  
    
No one forbade it. It was broken off voluntarily, without outside interference -- saving, perhaps, the influence of the Enemy.  
  

Beren:  
    
Morgoth broke up their relationship?  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
I was speaking metaphysically. Only in the sense of the wider Marring, destroying and damaging things in the world before they have a chance . . .  
  
[pause]  

Beren:  
    
You're keeping something back. Why are you playing guessing games with me?  
  
[he looks from one to another of them -- they don't look away, but none of the Ten can bring themselves to answer. Finally:]  
  

Steward:  
    
She was a Beoring.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
Someone from Dorthonion?  
  

Captain:  
    
Someone of your House.  
  

Beren: [shock]  
    
Who?  
  

Captain:  
    
It was a long time ago, lad. Before you were born.  
  

Beren:  
    
Not -- not Ma? I know my parents married kind of late, but -- I would have -- they would have -- someone would have said something over the years--  
  

Steward: [quickly]  
    
No, no -- not Emeldir. Long before you were born.  
  

Beren:  
    
Then -- why -- I don't understand -- if no one -- why?  
  

Captain:  
    
Because Aegnor, I'm sorry, is a--  
  

Steward: [cutting him off]  
    
\--Don't.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't know what I was going to say.  
  

Steward:  
    
Either "coward" or "fool," and the matter is significantly more complicated than that. --Am I not right?  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
Well, actually, "--blithering idiot."  
  

Steward:  
    
Near enough.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
\--It can be of minimal consolation, but -- I did not enjoy being rebuked by milord either.  
  

Beren:  
    
The Prince yelled at you too? Why?  
  

Steward: [bleakly]  
    
Because I made a jocular comment to the effect that, if matters in Middle-earth were anything to go by, his attractiveness, far from being diminished by having left and come back, would be enhanced by the exotic aura of travel and danger -- a renowned adventurer, instead of merely "one of Feanor's youngest half-nephews," -- and that eventually, once we were let out, the intrinsic interest would outshine the tarnish of rebellion and could hardly fail to impress whichever lady he wished to win. Lord Aegnor was not amused. As you might put it, I "had my ears ripped good" for it. He did apologize, once he realized that I had no notion of why he was so infuriated, but the apology was nearly as distressing as the offense.  
  

Captain: [earnest]  
    
I would have told you, if I hadn't been sworn to secrecy.  
  

Steward.  
    
I don't blame you.  
  

Captain:  
    
I wish you wouldn't blame him, either.  
  

Steward: [dispassionate]  
    
The issue is resolved. I understand why he chose to keep it entirely within the family and to seal all the intelligence files on the affair even after the deaths of his Highness and Lady Andreth. I simply disagree. I am well aware that at least a modicum of my disagreement stems from personal discomfiture at having been kept in the dark, and the King is well aware of my views on the matter. End of subject.  
  
[The Captain looks away in distress]  
  

Beren:  
    
Wait a minute -- you mean my great-aunt Andreth? An'-the-Deep-Minded?  
  
[silent nods of affirmation]  
  

Beren:  
    
The Prince was engaged to my aunt?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, not betrothed per se. He lost his nerve before it got that far.  
  

Beren:  
    
Prince Aegnor -- and my aunt?  
  

Captain: [nods]  
    
Just as true as the first time you said it, lad.  
  

Beren:  
    
But--  
  
[shakes his head]  
  
How come I never heard about it?  
  

Captain:  
    
It wasn't common knowledge. They were both very private people and unlike yourselves, no one ever made a public spectacle of their relationship.  
  

Beren:  
    
But someone must of known. --People gossip. Stuff gets talked about.  
  

Steward:  
    
I did not know, and I was contemporary to it, though indeed not present for the most part. I should guess that some few of the Lady's close kin were aware, and that such as were, chose not to speak of it for consideration of her feelings. After all, what was to be said? No promises were made, hence none broken, no public disrespect given, it was a private matter -- at least at the point beyond which it did not progress -- and for many reasons, not least of which I hazard the uncertainty of what, in the end, should be said, I guess that few should wish to think on it, let alone discuss the matter.   
  

Beren: [dangerous]  
    
\--What reasons?  
  
[silence -- the Steward looks towards the Captain]  
  

Captain: [shaking his head, sadly]  
    
That's your department, not mine.  
  

Steward: [sighing]  
    
The complication of vassal to lord, your House being liege to the Princes as well as to King Finrod, and all that that entails -- which might have yet been insufficient, had Lord Aegnor broken betrothal, and that publicly, so that your great-grandfather should have been compelled to address the matter in open counsel, or seek redress for his sister's disdaining even to the King's own court. But since that did not happen, far easier to let it be.  
  

Beren:  
    
That's one reason.  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
The other -- which is all the rest -- is -- Time. That the Prince should continue, in outward seeming at the least, unchanged, while the Lady endured the encroachments of her mortality, would surely have silenced any whose hearts urged them to protest otherwise. --Or so I must hazard, in absence of evidence.  
  
[Beren is completely quiet. Abruptly he sits down on the floor.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Are you all right?  
  

Beren:  
    
No.  
  
[he gives a short laugh]  
  
So -- after all that -- I show up, too dumb to figure it out for myself, or to get the hints the universe kept throwing at me, that, hey, this is not possible, deal with it, and -- no wonder he didn't think it was the best thing for either of us. But -- what d'ye know, I had to go and prove him right.  
  
[fiercely]  
  
I should have died at Aeluin.  
  
[Huan whines and paws at his knee]  
  

Captain: [aside]  
    
\--Damn all oaths to Angband!  
  

Beren: [ragged]  
    
I know. --The world is a horrible place.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't need to tell us that.  
  

Beren:  
    
It's like -- every time I think it can't get worse, -- it does. I -- I--  
  
[he slumps sideways, bracing unsteadily on his elbow, letting his head hang down. Alarmed, the Captain kneels and tries to lift him upright, but Beren only leans against him, unable to support himself]  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren\--  
  

Beren: [looking up but not tracking at all.]  
    
Sir--?  
  

Captain: [very worried]  
    
Can you see me?  
  

Beren: [thinly]  
    
Not well. . . . It feels like I'm going into shock.  
  

Captain:  
    
But you can't go into shock, now--  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
\--Can he?  
  

Beren: [closing his eyes]  
    
It's like -- everything's not real. Or I'm not real. And I just want to go away.  
  
[pause]  
  
And I'm cold.  
  

Guard: [appalled]  
    
He's fading.  
  

Warrior:  
    
But how? He's already dead!  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
Because this Shore is not where he is called.  
  

Captain: [urgent]  
    
Beren -- look at me. You have to stay focused. You can't give in. It isn't that bad.  
  

Ranger:  
    
That's right. --We're here. We shan't let you fade.  
  

Captain: [pleading]  
    
We promised Himself we'd look after you -- you don't want to make a liar out of me, now, do you?  
  

Warrior: [very hesitant]  
    
But -- if -- since he's mortal -- and -- humans are meant to move on, after they're dead -- ought we to interfere with the laws of nature?  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp bark]  
  

Third Guard: [savagely, grabbing him by the arm]  
    
Don't even think of such a thing! How can you say that?  
  
[he seems about to hit the other Elf, who is just as upset and does not even try to resist, before the Steward motions them apart]  
  

Steward: [very stern]  
    
Enough. The question has to be asked. --And the answer is of course yes. One presumes--  
  
[looking around the hall]  
  
Yes. We'll bring him over to the fountain, such as it is.  
  
[he kneels and picks Beren up despite the latter's initial, unsuccessful attempt to stand of his own strength, and Huan leaning in on them]  
  

Warrior: [worried]  
    
But will that work?  
  

Captain:  
    
Why not?  
  

Warrior:  
    
He's . . .  
  
[stops]  
  

Captain:  
  
    
Right, then.  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
Can you manage?  
  

Steward:  
    
Of course.  
  
[followed by the others, he carries Beren over to the side of the rectangular basin and kneels by the edge]  
  
A cloak, if you please.  
  
[the Warrior hands his over at once, before anyone else can, and the Steward tucks it around Beren like a survival blanket, not putting him down. The Captain looks at the wall fountain with displeasure -- it's very quiet, with hardly a ripple to be heard.]  
  

Captain: [exasperated]  
    
What's the good of a falls that doesn't make any noise?   
  

Ranger:  
    
No idea, sir.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I think it's supposed to be subtly aesthetic, actually.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, do something about it, Lieutenant.  
  
[he turns back to Beren and the others, leaving his subordinates to it. The Rangers look at each other, the Youngest seeming dismayed. His colleague shakes his head and shrugs -- he sighs, squares his shoulders and begins to study the water sculpture with a resigned expression. Almost instantly the stone begins to reform, changing from a tall sheet of low grooves to a mass of leaning boulders and an escarpment blending out of the surrounding wall, which causes the water to cascade down with considerably more vigour and consequent noise. Except for the fact that all the stone is the same even gray and there is no moss or other plant life, it looks quite realistic (except for the context.)]  
  

Captain:  
    
Good job.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [woodenly]  
    
Yes, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, you're not still worrying about them noticing you, are you? --I'll tell Lady Vaire that I'm responsible for the mess and your name won't come into it at all.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
She'll know that you're not telling the truth--  
  

Captain: [interrupting with a touch of impatience]  
    
\--It is the truth. I made the decision, gave you a legitimate order and you only carried it out, ergo I am responsible.  
  
[his subordinate does not look totally convinced -- the Captain rises and takes him by the arm]  
  
Look, do you really think we're going to desert you at this point, hand you over without a struggle to the authorities if they want to send you back?  
  
[looks meaningfully at Beren]  
  
Do you think His Majesty would allow it?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [small smile]  
    
No, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Good lad. Let your elders do the worrying -- that's what we get paid for.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [old joke]  
    
You get paid?  
  

Captain: [claps him on the shoulder]  
    
Get everyone on point -- set a perimeter, I don't like the feel of things.  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
\--Unless you disagree?  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
A very good idea. Now, I've had a moment for thought -- go find the King, and bring him here--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Yes. Of course.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--and take Huan.  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah, for tracking, of course--  
  

Steward:  
    
Not only. Cavalry equals speed.  
  

Captain: [shocked]  
    
Ride Huan?  



	12. Scene II - part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Steward:  
    
If he didn't mind before in the same cause, I much misdoubt he'll object now. --Do you, boy?  
  

Huan: [bouncing in place]  
    
[short impatient barks]  
  

Captain: [shaking head]  
    
This still seems wrong. I do apologize--  
  
[he swings up onto Huan's back, and the Hound takes off like a racehorse. The remaining Eldar spread out into a loose circle, fanning out from the waterfall, one of the Rangers scaling up to take a watchpost on top of the rock formation, their expressions worried, but taking the task too seriously to let concern distract them. The fall splashes quite a lot, just like a real one.]  
  

Beren: [shakily]  
    
You're getting wet.  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
So are you.  
  

Beren: [fretful]  
    
How?  
  

Steward: [same calming tone throughout]  
    
As I understand it, each thing which exists in the world -- not merely ourselves -- has both its outward and material being, and its inward and permanent essence, the which differs from the former chiefly in that most material fact of matter. And we, that are the essences or principles of ourselves, may no less perceive, and encounter, those essences of other things, even as in life we did, though through the intermediation of our respective bodies, with greater or lesser tangibility, as the ideas of those things are held more strongly, or weakly, in our thought. --Such at least is the King's theory concerning the facts, which are themselves undeniable.  
  

Beren:  
    
Is that why -- why everything's sort of vague to me? Because humans don't have insight the way you do, and there's no surfaces?  
  

Steward:  
    
Perhaps. Perhaps not. It might well be that your spirit has been so damaged that, even as one cannot well sense or act when gravely injured, you have not the strength to focus your perception upon our surroundings.  
  

Beren:  
    
Or perhaps I'm too dumb to think about things properly.  
  

Steward:  
    
I very much doubt that. You grasped my explanation well enough -- which places you signally ahead of many another resident here.  
  
[puts his hand in the basin]  
  
Do you want some? Even if it is merely the idea of water.  
  
[gives him a drink, obliging him to pay attention and cooperate a little]  
  

Beren:  
    
You're trying to keep me distracted.  
  

Steward:  
    
Yes.  
  

Beren:  
    
You taught me the Old Tongue. And made me memorize "The Fall of the Noldor."  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
\--Otherwise known as "that really long depressing Quenya poem."  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm afraid you wasted your efforts, sir -- I can't remember any of it now.  
  

Steward:  
    
It served its purpose.  
  

Beren:  
    
Every time I started losing it you drilled me on verb endings and stuff until I was too angry and frustrated to panic.  
  

Steward:  
    
Do not overcredit me: it was not solely altruism on my part. Such exercises served as distraction not only for yourself. --More water?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
  
    
I don't belong here.  
  

Steward:  
    
But you are here. Therefore you must have some purpose to accomplish here.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm not supposed to be. I shouldn't have stayed. That's what he said.  
  

Steward:  
    
Lord Namo?  
  

Beren:  
    
All of them. I stayed because Tinuviel said to wait. And I did. And now everyone wants me to go.  
  

Steward:  
    
Not the Princess, surely?  
  

Beren:  
    
No . . .  
  

Steward:  
    
Nor us.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [very quietly]  
    
Lord Edrahil?  
  

Steward:  
    
Yes, Beren?  
  

Beren:  
    
Do you miss your family?  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed yes. Though whether they in turn regret my absence, I could not dare to say.  
  

Beren:  
    
I haven't belonged to the world of Men since my father was killed. I don't have a place in Middle-earth where I belong. I destroyed the one other place that was a home for my people. I destroyed Doriath. I should have died where I was born.  
  

Steward: [gently reminding]  
    
Luthien is your family, now.  
  

Beren: [closing his eyes]  
    
And I killed her too. She doesn't need me. You've told me how beautiful Valinor is . . . she could have all that forever. She doesn't belong in here, being harangued yet again because of me. If I was gone, she'd be safe--  
  

Steward: [sharp]  
    
Beren. "Carnamirie."  
  

Beren: [reaction]  
    
"Red-jeweled."  
  

Steward:  
    
That is the word. What does it mean?  
  

Beren:  
    
\--"Rowan."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Yallume."  
  

Beren: [uncertain]  
    
"Cup"--?  
  

Steward:  
    
That's "yulme." --"Yallume."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Finally" --?  
  

Steward:  
    
Correct. --"Roquen."  
  

Beren:  
    
That's easy, "horse" -- no, "rider."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Maiwe."  
  

Beren:  
    
Eh. Not an easy one . . . something to do with the sea. --"Gull."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Coronar."  
  

Beren:  
    
"A year." --One of our years, not a Great Year.  
  

Steward:  
    
"Tindomerel."  
  

Beren: [smiles a little]  
    
"Nightingale."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Macar."  
  

Beren: [snorts]  
    
\--Not any more. Kind of hard to wield an "eket" with the wrong "mat."  
  

Steward: [dispassionate correction]  
    
"Ma" -- "hand," singular. --"Maruvan."  
  

Beren:  
    
"They'll bide here--"  
  

Steward:  
    
Not "they" . . .  
  

Beren:  
    
"I will --"  
  
[looks up at him]  
  
You're cheating.  
  

Steward:  
    
Of course. "Harma."  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
"Something valuable."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Estel."  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
"Trust."  
  
[very deliberately:]  
  
\--"Vorima."  
  
[The Steward looks away and does not answer, so Beren does:]  
  
"Faithful."  
  

Steward: [successfully hiding embarrassment]  
    
\--"Hekilo."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Exile." --"Vanda."  
  
[he wins this round too]  
  
"Oath."  
  

Steward: [clipped tone]  
    
"Ambar."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Doom."  
  
[pause - the next word is hard to pronounce]  
  
"Na--Nwalme."  
  

Steward: [brief look of exasperation]  
    
"Torture." --"Helca."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Ice." --"Nolmo"  
  

Steward:  
    
"Wise one." --"Nuruhuine."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Threat of death."  
  
[pause. Narrow look:]  
  
\--"Axor."  
  
[the Steward closes his eyes.]  
  
"Axor."  
  

Steward:  
    
Beren--  
  

Beren: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
"Axor"--?  
  

Steward: [quellingly]  
    
\--"Hina."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Child."  
  
[pause]  
  
\--Like in "Eruhini."  
  
[hesitant]  
  
\--"Nosse?"  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward: [softly]  
    
"Nukumna" -- for I am indeed humbled, that you would claim me as your kin.  
  
[brusque again]  
  
\--Unless it was a different word you meant?  
  

Beren: [small grin]  
    
"Elye."  
  

Steward: [shaking head]  
    
Hmph. If "even you" cannot refrain from subtlety, the world's come to a sad pass. --"Arato."  
  
[pause]  
  
It shouldn't be that hard: the element "ar" is present in many words, and the word itself more than once in "Noldolante" . . .  
  

Beren: [losing this round]  
    
\--"Hero."  
  
[rallying]  
  
"Elye."  
  

Steward:  
    
You've grown repetetive, I'm afraid. --"Selma."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Intransigent."  
  
[pause]  
  
\--"Atandil"  
  

Steward: [dry]  
    
If you're going to be forward enough to, as you would say, "cobble together" your own Quenya words, then you ought as well remember that the first and last rule is the taste of the word when uttered forth. "Atandur" is far more euphonious.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
Both true. Friendship and service. I'm winning, by the way. --"Faila."  
  

Steward: [still more acerbic]  
    
"Magnanimous." --The arrogance that could claim victory in a spoken duel with a trained bard after less than a half-season's rough teaching quite sends the mind reeling. --"Faire."  
  

Beren:  
    
"Ghost." That's both of "met" though -- "t" because it's two of us. Like two hands. But the other way would be true, too -- "me," all of us.  
  

Steward:  
    
I thought you didn't remember any of it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Me too. It just keeps bringing more of it, like when you try to remember all the verses of a song. --I'm still ahead. "Axor."  
  
[The Steward flicks some water at his face]  
  
Non-verbal response -- I win. "Axor."  
  

Steward:  
    
"Bones" -- Holy stars, Beren, you're incorrigible.  
  
[snorts]  
  
\--Well, such cleverness should find "The Fall of the Noldor" no challenge at all.  
  

Beren: [caught]  
    
Ah--  
  

Steward:  
    
Or -- we could move to declensions instead?  
  

Beren:  
    
That isn't any better. At least the "Noldolante" rhymes. Sort of.  
  

Steward:  
    
Declensions "sort of" rhyme, too.  
  

Beren:  
    
Nooo.  
  

Steward:  
    
Then "The Really Long Depressing Quenya Poem" it is. Alternating lines? Having lost the last round -- though I do not recall ever declaring a contest -- I suppose I must in forfeit lead off--  
  
[commotion -- Huan dashes in, barking, with passengers.]  
  
\--At last--  
  

Beren:  
    
"Yallume."  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed.  
  
[all three skid over to where they are sitting, with emergency dismounts, to kneel on either side of the two, Huan crowding in with as much concern until the Captain draws his head over and rubs his nose. Finrod reaches out to take hold of Beren's shoulder.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
What's wrong?  
  
[Beren tries to answer, shakes his head]  
  
He said you were fading  
  
\-- Beren, can you tell me what's the matter?  
  
[Beren tries again to find words]  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
"Rukina."  
  

Finrod: [puzzled]  
    
\--Wrecked?  
  
[Beren nods]  
  
Why?  
  
[No answer -- he looks to the Steward, who looks him in the eyes, challengingly]  
  

Steward:  
    
In general? Being dead; being driven half-mad by Oath, Silmaril, torture, poison, injury and guilt; being treated as an unwelcome trespasser with no right to exist here yet again. In specific -- your brothers came by, and were less-than-civil.  
  

Finrod: [straightening, shocked]  
    
My brothers--?!  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
It was mostly Angrod who did the shouting; Aegnor largely confined himself to glaring and unintelligible sounds of disgust.  
  

Steward:  
    
You're exaggerating again -- no one actually raised voices, merely indulged in caustic reproach and derogative comment.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren -- you -- you mustn't -- It isn't any of your fault, truly.  
  

Beren: [quietly]  
    
I understand.  
  

Finrod:  
    
They've been rather -- protective, of me. It's unfortunate you were in the way. You really mustn't--  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
\--No, Sir -- I understand. All of it. --About the Prince, and Da's Granda's sister.  
  
[Finrod gives his commanders stern looks]  
  

Steward: [unfazed]  
    
It seemed rather late to be worrying about Aegnor's dignity, as it most evidently concerned Lord Aegnor not at all.  
  

Captain:  
    
And "need-to-know" could  
most definitely be proven, in my judgment. Edrahil thought he deserved the truth -- and I concurred.  
  

Beren: [outraged & hurt -- it finally breaks loose]  
    
\--Sir, couldn't you have told me? After everything?  
  

Finrod: [stricken]  
    
I --  
  

Beren:  
    
How could you have kept that from me?  
  

Finrod: [pleading]  
    
It wasn't mine to tell.  
  
[defensive]  
  
Besides -- it -- it wouldn't have made any difference.  
  

Beren: [shaking head]  
    
It would. It would have helped me understand.  
  
[silence]  
  

Finrod: [very quiet]  
    
I'm sorry.  
  
[Beren nods, but does not speak]  
  
W--where are my siblings now?  
  

Steward:  
    
I invoked the threat of Amarie and they made themselves scarce, though I could not say for how long it will suffice.  
  
[Finrod winces again]  
  
My lord, he needs her. She is what binds him to this world, and nothing else. You must bring the Princess here as quickly as possible, while we bend our arts to keeping Beren within this Circle. Else he'll fade, and all shall have been for naught.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren -- please -- forgive me, I truly never meant to cause you distress -- I never thought--  
  

Captain: [stern]  
    
Sire. What purpose is served by troubling the Beoring with your regrets? You only make it harder for him.  
  
[Beren starts to say something, but doesn't get the chance]  
  

Steward:  
    
My lord -- you know what you must do, as we shall hold to our task.  
  
[Finrod, his expression of extreme distress, nods abruptly and rises, backing Huan out by his collar like a horse and mounting up without further discussion. Before they ride off, however, he looks over his shoulder at them]  
  

Finrod:  
    
The waterfall was an excellent idea. But music also worked well before. Will you add that, while I go?  
  
[He gives the Steward a meaningful Look]  
  

Steward:  
    
I have not played since before we left the City, my lord.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I know. --That's why I asked, not ordered.  
  
[they match stares again for a moment, before the Steward bows his head. To Beren:]  
  
Beor. You will stay until we fetch your lady hither. That is an order.  
  

Beren: [crooked grin]  
    
Yes, Sir.  
  
[Finrod gives him a worried smile, and Huan, impatient, barks a warning before charging forward. The Steward shakes his head a little, seeming distracted, and the Captain takes Beren from him quickly, not carelessly, with much more experience moving casualties.]  
  

Beren: [awkward]  
    
Did you . . . have to say that to his Majesty? I . . . I could have coped.  
  

Captain:  
    
I am sorry, Beren, I did not mean to embarrass you. One cannot mindspeak here -- no, that isn't it--  
  
[looks to the Steward, who has manifested a harp somewhat different in design from the King's, and is frowning abstractedly at it]  
  
Can you explain?  
  

Steward:  
    
All is thought here, and mind, and will, so one cannot speak otherwise. One can remain silent, refuse answer, but one cannot speak to some and not to all who are present. Nor can one conceal the truth, to most, by speaking falsely knowingly -- certainly not to the Lord and Ladies of this Hall.  
  
[runs a simple pentatonic scale up and down the strings]  
  
My invention is sadly worn.  
  
[plucks a minor, unresolved chord]  
  
I cannot think of any but sad songs lately -- I fear that would serve us little.  
  

Captain: [serious]  
    
There's strength in grief. It's caring for nothing that's truly fatal.  
  

Beren:  
    
My lord . . . give me your sorrow.  
  

Steward:  
    
Will it not weigh your heart past enduring?   
  

Beren:  
    
In exchange for my own. It can't be heavier.  
  
[the Captain anxiously brushes his hair back from his eyes, and touches some water to his temples]  
  

Steward:  
    
That seems but a poor bargain. How will it aid you?  
  

Beren:  
    
Why did you make me tell you all about the fall of Dorthonion? Repeatedly?  
  
[cuts him off before he can answer]  
  
\--And don't say it was all for my own good. You already admitted otherwise just now -- remember?  
  

Steward:  
    
I remember also that you must always have the last word. --You must tell me if the balance is unequal and the sum too great before the scale tips and the beam crashes.  
  
[without further ado he starts playing -- despite his disclaiming, it would be hard for any mortal listener to tell he's out of practice and in an inventive drought. Since there's no transcription of what early bardic performance actually consisted of, I'm conceiving it in the manner of extant English settings of poetry from the 12 and 1300s -- free-flowing and varied according to the length and nature of each line.]  
  
\--Oft should I, alone each dawn,  
my cares lament: now living is none  
that I to him the mood of my heart  
dare disclose. I know full well  
that for a leader 'tis lordly strength  
that he his locked counsels shall fastly bind,  
hold close his coffered thought, howso other he would.  
\--No more may heartwearied Doom stand defying,  
nor shall troubled musings bear with them help--  
for they most earnest of others' respect, tears oft  
in their breast's chamber shall bind away fast.  
  
So should I oft my soul make safe--  
beggared by care, bereft of my House,  
far from my home -- fettering my soul  
since I left him, my lord gold-joyful, generous,  
in earth's dark depths -- and I unwillingly,  
winterweary, was bound hither over the waves.  
Where might I find, living, friend or lord now  
who shall in meadhall name me their own?  
or my friendlessness would turn to friendship,  
win me to joyfulness? --This do we know  
how cruel a comrade is sorrow to him  
whose true friends have all been taken,  
wandering in exile -- worthless the worked gold,  
ice-cold his inmost thought, worthless the flowering fields.   
  
He minds him ever how all joy is broken,  
for that he knows that his joyful lord  
and his dear counsel shall long be forgoing:  
then sorrow and sleep ever together  
pitiful, solitary, oft are binding  
him in mind that he his liege-lord  
clasps and kisses and on knee lays  
hand and head, as he did betimes,  
vassal in spear-hall, at the gift-dealing--  
yet, then awakened, the joyless man  
sees before him the fallow waves,  
as sleet and snow and hail fall mingled.  
  
Then all the heavier be heart's wounds,  
sorely yearning after. Sorrow's made new again,  
when comrades in mind and thought return:  
he greets, joyfilled, earnestly looks on them--  
yet swiftly their souls swim oft away,  
floating forth, nor bring their spirits  
the cheerful harpsong. Cares are made new  
to him that shall send ever anew  
over waves binding the wearied soul.  
  
For this I may not in this world think  
of aught that my heart might darken not  
when I name noble lives all gone thence,  
brave horsemen and vassals. So Middle-earth  
and all upon it daily fades and fails.  
For this a warrior may not name him wise  
who has not dwelt winters in that worlds-realm.  
  
\--Such a one knows how soul-shaking shall be  
when all this world's wealth stands bestrewn  
as now likewise upon Middle-earth  
the wind bewails where walls are standing  
ice-enameled, ruined the fortresses,  
fallen the wine-halls, dead the defenders,  
lying by walls. Some the war took from us,  
faring in faroff ways: that one fed the carrion fowl  
far from harbour, to that one the ice-grey wolf  
dealt out death, -- that one the faithful friend  
hid in earthen grave, mourning for lord.  
  
[He stops the strings abruptly.]  
  
Now you must give me yours, in return.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
I can't, sir -- you've stolen it from me already, and I don't know how to get it apart from yours now.  
  

Steward:  
    
Forgive my theft.  
  

Beren: [shakes his head]  
    
You've repaid it and then some, given it winged words where it crawled in the weeds, or slept, earthbound.  
  

Steward: [brokenly]  
    
. . . I thank you, my lord, for such generous praise . . .  
  
[silence -- the Guard hesitantly puts a hand on the Steward's shoulder, endeavoring to comfort him. In the background, where a slight change in illumination reveals one of the doors, a dim figure is standing, listening, but we cannot see who it is in the shadows.]  



	13. Act IV, Scene III.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.i

  
  

Gower:  
    
\--That spirit that didst hold resolve  
'neath lowering disapprobatory love  
and force of fear, and fear of force,  
imposéd of greed and by remorse  
unchecked--  
\-- let it none astound  
that still shall hold unto her ground  
stronger far than foundation's stone  
or spell-set servitude that shall groan  
even as growl -- mightier than trees  
enwound, withstanding even these  
with love that weaveth fast as roots  
deep underground--  
  
  
[Elsewhere -- a circular room, much smaller than the great hall, but still quite large and with that spacious quality of certain medieval buildings, like the chapter house in Wells Cathedral. Around it between columns are hung a series of tapestries -- these are not like the ones we are used to, there being no visible stitches, and although they are very dim and dark like charcoal sketches now, there is a shimmering quality to the material that differentiates it strongly from the stone.]   
  
[Chairs are set in a smaller circle in the middle of the room, around a light which consists of a low, glowing basin in the form of a wide shallow stone bowl filled with silver liquid. Again, understated elegance is the theme here. The chairs are radically different --each one is unique and doesn't necessarily go with the others or the room -- except the love-seat occupied by the Lord and Lady of the Halls. There are three empty places, between Orome and Vaire's left; Aule is to Namo's right. Luthien is sitting on a footstool-sort-of-thing with her hands clasped in her lap, looking sulky and bored, between Irmo and Orome, while across from her Namo massages his temples while Vaire pats him on the knee.]  
  

Luthien: [patronizing]  
    
I've heard it all before, you know, you're not saying anything in the slightest bit new.  
  

Orome:  
    
And the source doesn't make any difference to you?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Why should it?  
  
[in the resulting silence she hops up and begins walking around the perimeter of the chamber, looking at the tapestries, while the Powers exchange quizzical looks]  
  
Oh -- that looks almost like--  
  
[she touches the tapestry nearest her and the surface brightens and shimmers into motion -- she starts back]  
  
\--it is the woods near home. And there's Mom and Dad -- and me \-- when I was very little . . .  
  
[she trails off]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Yes, we thought you'd find it more comfortable here, surrounded by happier recollections and familiar images.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Honestly! If you'd paid attention, you'd realize that home is the last place to have any positive associations for me right now.  
  

Vaire: [edged patience]  
    
Child, you're being a most unpleasant brat, right now.  
  
[Luthien shrugs]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Am I? I've fought my way halfway across the known world, and to the ends of Arda. The people I should have been able to trust and rely on have betrayed me, and help has come only from where I least expected it and had no right to it. And we're at an impasse, because you're not hearing what I'm saying. I'm beyond fed up at this point--  
  
[there is a loud disturbance from the hallway beyond -- baying like a hunting pack that has caught a scent, followed almost immediately by the flying form of Huan coming in at a run with Finrod crouched over his neck, taking the ring of chairs like a steeplechaser (fitting a tight half-stride over the pool of liquid light) and bounding across the other side to where she is standing amazed. The Hound drops down into the half-crouch of a predator, not the straight halt of a horse, and Finrod leans over, ignoring the astonished Powers]  
  

Finrod:  
    
He needs you.  
  
[her expression changes from surprise to fear: he reaches down, she catches his hand and swings up behind him. They exit in the same spectacular way as before, without any word or expression of apology]  
  

Orome: [outraged]  
    
Huan!!!  
  
[brief silence -- sighs and headshaking]  
  

Namo:  
    
I will be so glad when this yen is up.  
  

Vaire: [troubled]  
    
Darling, have you considered the possibility that that might not end it? It wasn't an either-or, if you recall, but only an ultimatum.  
  

Namo: [sitting up straight and pounding his fist on the arm of their bench]  
    
No. I am not putting up with this until the end of the world. Nia is going to going to take responsibility for them one way or another. I have enough problems as it is.  
  

Irmo:  
    
Do you think they're coming back, or should somebody go fetch her? --Little Luthien, I mean.  
  
[Namo lifts his hands helplessly]  
  

Namo:  
    
This is even more in flux than the last crisis. Not that they're anywhere on the same scale, of course.  
  

Vaire: [thoughtful frown, aside]  
    
I wonder . . .  
  

Namo:  
    
Give it a bit. I can do with a short break.  
  
[he manifests his teacup and leans back, shaking his head.]  
  

Aule: [to Vaire]  
    
So how's that new system working out for you? I've got some more ideas for setting markers in to make retrieval and matching easier.  
  

Vaire: [brightening right up]  
    
Oh, it's perfect! We're wasting so much less energy this way, and we haven't had a data snarl since last equinox. If you've got any ways to improve the filing process we'd be very appreciative, but that isn't really critical at present. But -- some of my helpers were wondering how that project for enhancing resolution was coming along . The Spinners who tested the prototypes were very positive about the finer quality of the energy streams.  
  
[their colleagues can't help smiling at the focus of these two enthusiasts]  
  

Aule:  
    
Unfortunately, we're still having storage issues -- it isn't a matter of the process itself, you understand -- the difficulty lies in the fact that the raw format tends to want to bind back together again if it isn't used right away.  
  

Vaire:  
    
Oh, that's too bad. --What a pity it can't be applied retroactively as well . . .  
  

Orome: [leaning back with his cynical attitude, looks around at the empty chairs]  
    
So, as usual, it's left to those of us with an attention span longer than a single season to take up the slack. Though I'm surprised Nia isn't here yet.  
  

Irmo: [frowning]  
    
Yes, so am I. You don't think Vana's coming back, then?  
  

Orome:  
    
Considering that she said her sister had the right idea, even if she didn't have the same reasons for it, and that if she had to hear one more round of this she was going to be "screaming and breaking things too," I really hope she doesn't. You know her forte's making things, not dealing with the messes afterwards.  
  

Namo: [over his mug]  
    
You have to be fair, though -- the only reason Yavanna's not here is that she's too personally involved with the situation.  
  

Aule: [startled]  
    
What? Did you say my wife's back?  
  

Orome:  
    
Calm down -- we said she isn't here.  
  
[the patron of Craftsmanship looks extremely relieved]  
  

Namo: [frowning to himself]  
    
Who does he remind me of?  
  
[to his spouse]  
  
Vaire sweetheart, doesn't that kid remind you of someone we've seen before? --Her consort, not Finarfin's boy.  
  

Vaire: [frowning in turn]  
    
Now that you mention it, dear, yes. --Not recently, though. Something about the personality . . .  
  


  



	14. Scene III.ii - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE III.ii**

  
  
[The Hall]  
  
[Beside the waterfall, Luthien is now holding Beren, kneeling with him half-sitting against her, her arms folded over his, resting her cheek against his head. He seems calmer now but very worn out. Huan is lying stretched beside him with his head on Beren's knees. Finrod has taken over the harp-playing, and the Ten are kneeling in a close ring around the four of them. There is a somber and tense air to the scene]  
  

Ranger: [to the Warrior, who keeps looking at the spill-pool distractedly]  
    
What's wrong?  
  

Warrior: [quietly]  
    
I was thinking some light would be good. Remember those little floating lamps in the summer? Wouldn't flames look nice reflecting off the water?  
  

Ranger: [frowning]  
    
How would you go about doing it? You're not going to actually try burning something, are you?  
  

Warrior:  
    
No, I thought the way we did it for the Battle. Just an illusion.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Oh, all right.  
  
[encouraging]  
\--You should do it. That could be quite lovely.  
  
[they set about creating tall intense-white candle-like flames on the surface of the calmer, shallow end of the spill-pool]  
  

Beren: [still vague and a bit slurred]  
    
So then . . . what did they say?  
  

Luthien: [ragged]  
    
Nothing -- nothing much. Stupid things. --The same old rotten nonsense.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry . . .  
  
[he gives her left hand a little shake where it is entwined with his]  
  
Just doesn't stop, does it?  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head]  
    
I still can't believe they'd be so horrible -- I wouldn't ever have thought it of Angrod especially, not after being so forgiving to House Feanor. Oh but I'm going to have words for him when I see him! And Aegnor too!  
  
[there is a discordant chord and break in the background music]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to fail you again. I thought it would be safe enough, or I'd not have left him here.  
  

Steward: [heavily]  
    
The blame is mine, for failing to send them away promptly enough.   
  

Luthien: [snorting]  
    
How could you have stopped them, my lord? I don't see any gates to close against them. And you're not my Mom, so you couldn't have made a maze to keep them out.  
  

Steward:  
    
Nevertheless a task was entrusted, and I the senior-most--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Edrahil, I'm not blaming any of you. I should have thought through the possibilities before dashing off and foreseen something of the like--  
  

Beren: [urgent]  
    
Please -- don't. Don't fight about me.  
  
[shivers suddenly]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Are you cold again?  
  

Beren:  
    
No.  
  
[he smiles a little]  
Between you and Huan -- couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to.  
  
[very quietly, as if they were alone, singing:]  
  
\--Black is the color  
of my true love's hair--  
Her face is something  
wondrous fair . . .  
  
[as he trails in and out, Luthien joins him on the last lines, her voice almost as unsteady:]  
  

Luthien:  
\--The purest eyes  
and the bravest hands--  
I love the ground  
whereon he stands--  
  
[muffled, into his hair]  
  
Don't leave -- don't leave me, Beren.  
  
[to the side, the enhancements are about finished.]  
  

Warrior:  
    
How does that look now?  
  

Ranger:   
    
Hmm . . . I think it's too busy.  
  
[gesturing]  
  
Instead of having them bobbing about, why don't you anchor them as if they were resting on stands coming just up under the surface. There's already so much motion because of the reflections in the water, having the lights moving as well looks choppy.  
  
[as they tweak it, the five Powers, having given up waiting, appear in front of the group and stand contemplating them with a critical gaze]  
  

Namo:  
    
No, it doesn't seem like they're planning on coming back. I'm still--  
  
[snorts]  
  
\--not sure about the mad prank part.  
  
[throughout the following exchanges he stands with folded arms looking hard at Beren, saying nothing -- Luthien glares tearfully back at him, while the Ten look a bit overwhelmed at being confronted by so many not-terribly happy deities at one go. Finrod just keeps on playing as though he were a bard at a gathering and there were nothing unusual about any of this.]  
  

Orome: [sternly]  
    
Huan.  
  
[the Hound gives him an alert Look but doesn't move]  
  
Huan! Come here.  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp distressed bark]  
  

Orome: [louder]  
    
Bad dog! Come!  
  

Huan:  
    
[repeated sharp barks]  
  
[the racket is what you would expect of a large dog in a large echoing area. Everyone winces, and Orome tries to outshout Huan.]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Tav, please! Not now.  
  

Irmo: [disapprovingly]  
    
What a heathen and barbaric-looking spectacle.  
  
[one has to admit he has a point -- there's a definite Viking-funeral aspect to the scene, what with the honor-guard, the flames, the horse-sized Hound, the harper and the dead Man's wife all clustered about beside the water]  
  

Vaire: [deceptively mild]  
    
Would anyone like to explain this?  
  

Captain:  
    
It's my project. --Please don't break anything, milady --  
  
[she rolls her eyes]  
  
\--it's purely to help our friend, the Princess's husband.  
  
[Vaire looks back across to the hill and then towards the waterfall again.]  
  

Vaire: [warningly]  
    
I'm not cleaning all this up. --Can you people manage not to flood the hallways this time?  
  

Captain:  
    
That was an accident, I assure you, no one realized the conduit was there--  
  

Vaire: [forced patience]  
    
Yes. I know. That's why I'm asking in advance. I don't know what will happen if you get the Loom wet. And I don't want to find out, and if you have any sense whatsoever, child, you don't either.  
  
[to her husband]  
  
I'm going to look for that reference, darling.  
  
[she goes over to the Loom and starts fiddling with it in a very competent and rapid way]  
  

Orome: [low commanding tone]  
    
Huan, come here.  
  

Huan:  
    
[menacing growls]  
  

Namo:  
    
Huan. Tavros. Finrod. --Quiet. [the music and snarling stop, leaving only the sound of the waterfall]  
  

Luthien: [aggressively pleading]  
    
My Lord--  
  
[Namo holds up his hand for silence]  
  

Namo: [to Beren]  
    
Why are you trying to leave?  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm not exactly trying to leave, Sir.  
  

Namo:  
    
Please don't do this. I don't have patience for word games. --What is the problem?  
  

Beren: [very simply and quietly]  
    
I found out about something terrible that happened in the past. I felt as if I'd been betrayed. I don't feel as though I belong here any more.  
  

Namo: [ignoring Finrod's flinch at Beren's words and expression of grief]  
    
Then why are you still here?  
  

Beren:  
    
Because Tinuviel told me to stay.  
  

Namo:  
    
Is that the only reason?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
No.  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you want to leave?  
  

Beren: [wretchedly]  
    
I don't know.  
  

Namo: [ignoring Luthien's distressed noise]  
    
If you happen to figure it out, let us know, would you? So that we don't have to waste any more time on this discussion.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yessir.  
  

Namo: [snorts]  
    
Honestly. You people.  
  
[to Vaire]  
  
I've remembered why he seems familiar, darling: you don't need to try to find the piece. Do you recall that fellow who kept shouting at us because he seemed to think it was our fault that he'd believed Morgoth's emissary and not Finarfinion the Elder here?  
  

Vaire:  
    
Oh dear. Yes.  
  
[she stares keenly across at Beren]  
  
You're right. --How long did it take you to convince him that he needed to take his complaints elsewhere since you never had any control over the King's brother, or over his servants, let alone over any mortals, and that it was pointless for him to keep railing at you for not having somehow prevented him from making mistakes?  
  

Namo:  
    
Way too long. I should have recognized that blockheadedness from the beginning.  
  
[Beren and Finrod exchange a brief troubled look -- Finrod touches his shoulder reassuringly]  
  

Luthien: [terse]  
    
Beren, what's he talking about?  
  

Beren: [glum]  
    
One of my relatives. --My way-back uncle Bereg, who took a bunch of the tribe back east again . . . after Sauron-in-disguise convinced him that it was a bad idea to stay and get killed fighting in the Leaguer. . . . Sounds like it didn't work out too well for them.  
  

Finrod: [urgently]  
    
Sir, this is BerEN, not BerEG. He's a very different person, both in the actuality and in the ideal.  
  

Namo:  
    
Can you manage for once not to talk down to me, Finrod? --Not that I hold out much hope of it. I know that he's not the same one again. I said he's got the same family stubbornness.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
At least he isn't blaming any of his troubles on us. So far.  
  

Luthien: [suppressed fury]  
    
And why shouldn't he, when you're tricking me into leaving him so that you can banish him without my knowing?  
  

Namo:  
    
Why do you think I'm doing it?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Because you want him to go, and you're in charge here.  
  

Finrod: [simultaneous with her words]  
    
You're not? --My Lord.  
  

Namo: [patiently]  
    
I don't have jurisdiction over mortals. The only one who seems to have any control over this young Man is you. And to a lesser extent your cousin here. Somehow he's staying here, in defiance of the Laws of the universe, because you told him to. And I would guess that, if it's not outright tearing him apart, that's only because he possesses inordinate obduracy and resilience. --Either that or he's so crazy that there's no way to tell. But the strain on him has got to be tremendous.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Why can't you do something to stop it?  
  

Namo:  
    
Wrong question.  
  
[pause]  
  
The proper question is "Why  
can you do something to stop it?" -- and the answer lies with him.  
  
[the Lord of Dreams moves closer and kneels down on the other side of Beren from where Huan is guarding him -- the Elven-shades react with defensive tension, but the Hound, lacking any such inhibitions, just outright bares his teeth and growls]  
  

Irmo: [calm voice]  
    
I'm not going to hurt him.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
Let me see, please.  
  
[he touches his forehead like someone checking a child for fever -- over his shoulder, to his brother:]  
  
\--It's as you thought: the binding is mutual; he doesn't truly want to let go.  
  
[to Beren, warningly]  
  
The strain will only get worse, the longer you stay here, you do understand.  
  

Beren: [quick sardonic smile]  
    
I can stand a lot.  
  
[bewildered frown]  
  
I know you . . . somehow.  
  

Irmo: [nods]  
    
Yes.  
  
[he rises and returns to his companions]  
  
The efforts of these equally-focussed souls to entrap him here, and the beneficial impact of such surroundings as they have created, can't be dismissed; but if he were not willing -- or rather, set upon it \-- all the therapeutic effects of water, light, music and love would be useless.  
  
[sighing deeply]  
  
As we have learned to our lasting sorrow. --It's the strength of his desire for her, as much as hers for him, that withstands the frailty of his own inherent nature, and the call of his proper Fate. . . . . Rationally one should deplore such a rebellious intransigence -- but one can't help admiring such gallant determination.  
  

Aule: [dry]  
    
So you're saying he's more obsessive than Feanor, Tilion and Eol combined? And this is supposed to be a recommendation?  
  

Vaire: [still messing with the Loom]  
    
I've just noticed something that might be useful. Excuse me--  
  
[she vanishes]  
  

Namo: [to Luthien]  
    
Does that answer your questions? I have no idea how he's managing to hold on here. However he's doing it, it's his lookout, and his responsibility -- though whether he'll remember that when it gets to the yelling and the recriminations is anyone's guess. I doubt you will either, given your attitude, but we'll see how it goes. Can we finish our discussion now? Without any more abrupt exits?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I'm not going to leave him alone again!  
  

Orome: [acidly]  
    
He's hardly alone.  
  
[several of the Ten are doing their best to avoid his Look, particularly the Captain, the Noldor Ranger and the Warrior. Huan makes a preliminary-bark noise, but the Steward shushes him.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Besides, what's the point? Nobody was saying anything purposeful.  
  

Beren: [hesitantly defensive]  
    
I haven't yelled at anyone, Sir.  
  

Namo:  
    
\--Yet. --Because, Luthien, this is an insupportable situation, for you, for him, and as a result for us.  
  
[without looking around]  
  
And look who's mysteriously appeared -- though that's hardly surprising, given his earlier mysterious disappearance.  
  
[as his sister's student walks in looking preoccupied -- then takes in the crowd and stops short, dismayed]  
  
Where have you been?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I had an errand I was supposed to run for my Lady.  
  
[he looks around guiltily, trying not to make it obvious that he's wondering where Amarie went]  
  

Namo:  
    
You said you didn't have anything else to do.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- I know. I forgot, Sir.  
  

Namo: [intense exasperation]  
    
How could you forget? I asked you directly, you said "No."  
  

Apprentice: [shrugs]  
    
I was wrong.  
  

Namo:  
    
Why didn't you say something? Nobody could find you. You just walked off and left no one else in charge! Do you really think that's the right way to go about things?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I didn't think it would take long enough to make it worth bothering anyone about.  
  
[pause]  
  
I gather I was wrong about that, too.  
  

Namo:  
    
What if security had tried to contact me with information about the rogue?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But they didn't.  
  

Namo:  
    
How do you know?  
  
[The Apprentice takes out what looks like a marble and shows it to him]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I set up a sympathetic link, so that if the stone went off I'd hear it and know.  
  
[pause]  
  
So it was all right, Sir--  
  

Namo:  
    
No it wasn't, because first of all it's the principal of the thing, that you don't just walk away from your work and forget to tell someone about it, and secondly we needed you to run an errand and you weren't there. How long is it going to take before you stop and think before haring off on some new project or whim while the other ones are still unfinished?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm, is that real, or rhetorical, my Lord? Because I'm afraid nobody knows the answer, not even the King -- that's why he asked my Master to take me on -- but I've made a chart of my progress so far if you want to try to work out a projected date--  
  

Namo: [holding up his hand]  
    
Stop. Just stop.  
  
[looks from Finrod to Nienna's Apprentice]  
  
I don't know which of you two is more annoying.  
  
[the recipients of his disapproval share disgruntled Looks]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well -- what should I be doing, then, Sir? Do you want me to run the errand now?  
  

Aule:  
    
No. We gave it to someone more responsible.  
  

Apprentice: [crestfallen]  
    
Oh.  
  

Namo:  
    
Would you just ask my wife and then do what it is she tells you to do? She'll probably just want you to keep any eye on the usual troublemakers and make sure they're not killing each other again.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh joy.  
  
[he makes no move to go]  
  

Namo: [to Luthien]  
    
Could we be getting back to our discussion now?  
  

Luthien:  
    
No, I want to talk to my husband first.  
  
[pause]  
  
In private. I'll come along when we're done.  
  
[pause]  
  
You needn't wait, my Lord.  
  

Namo: [looking around]  
    
You call this private?  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I meant without any divine critiquing going on.  
  

Namo:  
    
Then why didn't you say so?  
  
[to Nienna's Apprentice]  
  
You may not be at the top of my list for long. By the way, what are you still doing here?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You said to keep the usual troublemakers from killing each other. About half of them are here.   
  

Namo:  
    
And?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And this is far more interesting. And yes, Sir, that was a very free interpretation of what you said. And I think I'll be going to verify that with Lady Vaire first.  
  
[he bows and exits hastily, yet still reluctantly, looking back at the scene of the confrontation]  
  

Orome:  
    
He really gets on my nerves.  
  

Irmo:  
    
Is there anyone's that he doesn't?  
  

Aule:  
    
It's the wasted potential that's the worst.  
  
[pointed silence. Finrod sighs and drums his fingers on the harp-frame, looking at the ceiling]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Making snide remarks about my cousin isn't going to speed things along -- or make me feel particularly more well-disposed to you.  
  
[pause]  
  

Orome: [defensive]  
    
We weren't talking about--  
  

Namo: [interrupting]  
    
No, in fact, that's exactly what we were doing.  
  
[to Luthien]  
  
Call us when you're ready -- we're waiting for you.  
  
[the Powers vanish. The room is left a bit less empty-seeming this time, due to the presence of a dozen other shades, a small waterfall, torches and one of those ghosts being a giant Hound. Beren sits up the rest of the way, supported on either side by his wife and her cousin.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Beren -- do you really want to leave?  
  
[he looks at her sadly, but doesn't answer  
  
Don't tell me what you think I -- what I want to hear.  
  
[he still doesn't say anything]  
  
Are -- are you angry -- at me?  
  
[still no reply]  
  
Please answer me -- even if it's yes\--   
  
[he puts his arm around her neck and kisses her, patting her head and smoothing her face as they pull away after]  
  

Beren: [wryly]  
    
How's that?  
  
[she gives him a watery smile, and the rest of his friends finally relax]  
  

Captain:  
    
I'd say that's a "no" on both counts.  
  
[Beren looks at the flames on the reflecting pool]  
  

Beren:  
    
That -- looks spectacular. Thanks.  
  

Warrior: [shrugging]  
    
Wasn't much, really.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Gave us something to do besides worry.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
Have you ever heard of anyone fading out of sheer embarrassment?  
  

Luthien: [stressed]  
    
Why on earth would you want to do that, love?  
  

Beren: [looking down, shoulders hunched]  
    
All this trouble over nothing -- so many people being dragged into it -- the gods -- because I can't seem to figure out this business of being dead.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren, it wasn't nothing. You were in a very bad way, it was real, and what we did was real and necessary, and worked as it would have if we had been alive and you Eldar. You don't need to apologize.  
  
[he tips Beren's chin up as if talking to a child]  
  
Right? --Unless you think you can possibly out-apologize me. Do you want to try?  
  
[groans from the Ten -- Beren gives a small smile and shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope.  
  
[Finrod tousles his hair and pulls him closer]  
  

Finrod: [quietly]  
    
Can you forgive me?  
  

Beren:  
    
Already did -- cousin.  
  
[he hugs Finrod hard, as the other tries not to come completely undone. While Finrod discreetly wipes his eyes on his sleeve:]  
  
I didn't want to ask -- him -- but . . . who's Eol?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Living -- well, proof, at any rate -- that not all the craziness is on my side of the family.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Is he here?  
  

Finrod: [deep sigh]  
    
Oh yes. App--  
  

Luthien: [interrupting]  
    
\--Did he really marry what's-her-name, your uncle's daughter -- Aredhel? That's what Curufin said.  
  

Finrod:  
    
And accidentally murdered her. We have very interesting family reunions around here.  
  

Beren: [disbelieving]  
    
How can you accidentally murder someone?  
  

Steward:   
    
He was, so the story goes, endeavoring to murder their son, but she intervened. Pursuant to which her brother had him thrown off a precipice. Not before -- or so he brags -- managing to put a curse on their son, however.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  
[pause]  
  
Am I not following very well, or was that weird even for Elves?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes. --To the second question, not the first. Apparently he turned up here demanding that she be sent back to Middle-earth so that they could start over again together. For any number of reasons that's simply not going to happen, so now they're both here giving the Powers chronic headaches.  
  
[Beren looks serious]  
And no, your situation is nothing at all like that, you didn't kill Luthien, and she's the one who came here after you, not vice versa--  
  

Luthien: [nodding]  
    
So if anyone ought to be compared to those three it should be me.  
  

Beren:  
    
But -- I -- hadn't even thought that yet.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You were about to. Right?  
  
[Beren looks down]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [stammering worse than Beren]  
    
Y--your Highness . . . it's an honour . . .  
  
[he's too overwhelmed to go on; Luthien is puzzled]  
  

Finrod:  
    
He's one of those who imagined you as "twelve feet tall with a perpetual battle aura."  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That's not true!  
  
[in response to the other's Look]  
  
Well, all right, rather\--  
  
[Luthien shakes her head]  
  

Luthien:  
    
It wasn't like that -- Huan did most of it, I just played bait until we got the one worth interrogating.  
  

Finrod: [raising his eyebrows]  
    
And who did the interrogating? I'm guessing that it wasn't Huan.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Yes, but Huan had a choke-hold on his jugular, which makes for a great deal of distraction as well as incentive to cooperate.  
  

Captain:  
    
I've seen your father angry.  
I wouldn't place any bets on which one of you was the scariest.  
  

Luthien:  
    
It really, really wasn't that way at all. I was terrified \-- I was shaking so hard I could hardly get back up again.  
  
[Beren's jaw clenches]  
  

Finrod:  
    
And you don't think Elu's frightened going into battle?  
  

Luthien: [disbelieving]  
    
Dad? Frightened?  
  

Steward:  
    
Of what should follow on his losing, if of nothing else.  
  
[She frowns at this -- an alien concept, Thingol afraid -- and shrugs]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I only did what I had to do, with lots of help.  
  
[she looks around at them all, ending with Beren]  
  
And so far it hasn't been enough.  
  
[Huan gets up and shoves his head into her face and throat, wagging his tail and being a very good dog, until she stops snifflingand shakes her head with a defiant lift of her chin.]  
  
I'm not giving up. --I'm not.  
  
[Huan looks over his shoulder and gives a happy bark, just before the Rangers snap to attention -- Nienna's Apprentice comes into the hall again, very diffident and apologetic in his bearing. He comes up and bows to the group, addressing Luthien:]  
  

Apprentice: [nervously]  
    
Excuse me, but could you please come along now? Or else--  
  

Luthien: [savage]  
    
\--Or else what?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah, he's going to yell at me again.  
  
[pause]  
  
It's even worse than when you yell at me.  
  

Luthien: [shrewd Look]  
    
You're trying to make me feel sorry for you.  
  
[pause -- the Apprentice nods]  
  
I should warn you that I'm not very cooperative any more when people try to guilt me into doing what they want.  
  

Apprentice: [downcast]  
    
I'm awfully sorry.  
  
[to Finrod]  
  
Erm . . . you don't happen to know where the Lady Amarie is, do you?  
  
[Finrod shakes his head, his smile looking rather definitely edged]  
  

Luthien:  
    
You're still doing it!  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Is it working?  
  

Luthien: [trying not to smile, not entirely successful]  
    
A bit. It's also making me want to throw something at you.  
  

Finrod: [innocent]  
    
Really? I've had this idea that one could probably pull water up and make it hold together long enough for it to stay airborne, rather like snow, but I've been saving it for some really tedious stint to experiment with it. Would you like to try it out now?  
  
[the Apprentice glares at him, trying to look far too dignified to be a target for a water fight. Luthien raises an eyebrow]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Actually, I was thinking -- more like a chair.  
  
[the Apprentice sighs]  
  

Apprentice: [to the air at large]  
    
Master, I'm afraid this isn't having the result you intended. --At least, I certainly hope this isn't what you intended, my Lady! My temper seems to be getting shorter and shorter, not the other way 'round!  
  
[to Luthien, pleading]  
  
Your Highness, please don't make me go back and fetch the Lord of the Halls. He'll be very put out with all of us. --And he'll treat me like a fool. And you don't really care one way or another about that -- not that I really blame you -- but still I--  
  

Huan: [interrupting]  
    
[sharp bark]  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Sorry.  
  
[Luthien gives an exaggerated sigh and looks at Beren]  
  

Beren: [low voice]  
    
You should. --At least we can show willing.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But I'm not. Not if it means giving you up.  
  
[pause -- Finrod reaches across Beren and rubs her shoulders]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm okay. I'll -- I'll be all right.  
  
[she moves around to kneel in front of him, putting her hands on either side of his face and staring fixedly into his eyes]  
  

Luthien: [adamantine clarity]  
    
Beren. I told you to wait for me. I haven't told you to stop. If you dare fade out of Arda I will find some way to follow you, and let the One help anyone who tries to stop me--!  
  
[she waits until he nods, solemnly, in reply and then kisses him hard before getting up to accompany Nienna's student -- who is preoccupied now with the additions to the fountain.]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
How did you make those? I can't see any sort of fuel or wick or anything.  
  

Warrior:  
    
They're illusions. Nothing's really burning.  
  

Ranger:  
    
I mean, really -- what would we burn, after all? Stone?  
  

Warrior: [seriously]  
    
Stone will burn if you get it hot enough, if it's the right kind.  
  

Ranger: [dismissive]  
    
I know, I know -- but you'd need some fuel to raise it to that temperature, and that brings us right back to where we started from.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh, that explains why the reflections are all wrong.  
  

Warrior:  
    
No, they aren't.  
  

Apprentice: [pointing]  
    
Yes, they are, they're too long: your "flames" aren't tall enough to cast so much of a reflection.  
  

Warrior:  
    
It's a work of art. Haven't you ever heard of artistic license?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But it looks wrong that way! They should only be about like so--  
  
[he changes them, so that there is far less reflected light on the water]  
  

Ranger:  
    
But that doesn't look anywhere near as pretty.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes, but that's reality--  
  
[Luthien clears her throat: he looks around guilty and sees her standing there tapping her foot.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
First you nag me to come, now you're dawdling. I really don't have any patience for this right now.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm . . .  
  
[she gives him a narrow Look]  
  
\--Sorry?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I damn' well hope so!  
  
[he hastily moves to escort her out -- at the doorway she pauses and turns back to give the company an intense stare]  
  
Beren, remember -- stay.  
  

Beren: [wide-eyed innocence]  
    
\--Woof!  
  
[Huan gives him a startled look at his imitation; Luthien's earnest look turns into an embarrassed smile and she goes, on the edge between laughing and crying. As soon as Nienna's Apprentice is gone the Warrior brings back his illusions to the way they were.]  
  

Warrior: [disgruntled]  
    
What does he know about it anyway? Has he studied the subject?  
  
[rather stiffly, Beren gets up, leaning on Huan's back and head for leverage, and patting the Hound once he is on his feet -- Huan licks his hand and gives him a sad-eyed look; Beren pats him again and goes over to the quieter shallow end of the pool, moving with bone-deep weariness. He kneels down and splashes water on his face, before settling down to look at the reflections of the lights, trailing his fingers in the basin with a look of bemused wonder. Anxiously Finrod comes over and crouches by him, very definitely hovering. Behind them Huan makes unscrupulous use of doggish charm to ensure that the Ten devote themselves to giving him scratches and nose-rubs.]  
  

Finrod: [timidly]  
    
Do you want me to tell you all about it?  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren:  
    
Not right now. I just -- need time to think. I can't -- it's all been too much. Not just -- all of it.  
  
[Finrod nods sadly]  
  
Can you keep playing?  
  

Finrod: [nodding again and picking up the harp]  
    
Anything in particular?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Just that \--  
  
[makes a sort of back-and-forth gesture with his hand]  
  
\--like you were doing, to sort of go along with the water. I know that's really a technical description there . . .  
  

Finrod:  
    
Like this?  
  
[he plays a simple arpeggio, very mellow and slow, not at all "agitare", and Beren nods.]  
  
I'll just keep doing that then, until you tire of it.  
  

Beren: [as if struck by a sudden thought]  
    
Do you want to talk about it?  
  
[Finrod nods in return]  
  
I -- I guess that would be all right then. Can you talk and play at the same time? It -- isn't like singing, I guess.  
  

Finrod:  
    
That isn't the problem. Such simple music is no bar to speech at all. I -- I don't know what to say, exactly, or how.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finrod: [softly]  
    
She was the star that awakened his heart -- she truly was his one true love, the morning arising for him upon the world -- and he Saw the coming of twilight even in the hour of her ascendance, in his fear, and fled to the outer darkness himself, before her Sun could fall to shadow. And she loved him in turn, and--  
  
[he cannot go on]  
  

Beren:  
    
And you didn't think it was a good idea then, either.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I -- I agreed with him, and with his arguments, and did not force him to go back to her, and the risk of that confrontation, and whatever might have followed on that argument -- whether of wrath -- or of reconciliation. And he has never forgiven me for yielding to him, and giving him his head in this, and very likely he never will. He has sworn himself to eternal celibacy, and eternal mourning, because she was his soulmate, and she has left the Circles of the World, and so he will take no more joy in Arda, because she does not.  
  

Beren: [quiet]  
    
You Saw that happening to Luthien, too, didn't you?  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
Not in the sense you mean. But I -- I feared it might. But more -- I bethought of your own folk--  
  
[he stops playing without even realizing it]  
  
\--of Balan, the first Beor, who followed me so brief a time, until sight and bone and heart failed -- though never spirit! -- of all those who came after, to our halls, to ride and sing and dance among us, and then vanish like breath on a wintery morning -- but first to grow brittle as ice, as fragile as a frozen leaf, and weary as a snow-laden bough under the burden of suffering and shame.  
  
[earnest & pleading]  
  
It was not all selfishness for my own kin.  
  

Beren:  
    
You don't have to go into all this if you really don't want, Sir.  
  
[the flatness of his words is belied by the accompanying gesture -- he puts his hand over Finrod's on the frame of the harp, looking at him without flinching]  
  

Finrod: [sad]  
    
I don't want you hating my brother -- either one of them -- even if they insist on being difficult.  
  

Beren:  
    
I wouldn't anyway.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I know, because you still can't stop blaming yourself for my death. But that really has no connection with what happened between our kin before you were born. Not logically, at least.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but it still feels like it does somehow.  
  

Finrod: [frowns]  
    
That reminds me: if they come back -- and given the way this place is, there isn't really any doubt about it -- to remonstrate with me, or to reproach you directly or indirectly again, I want you to stay out of it and to let me manage everything. Don't let them entangle you in another exchange of hostilities. Leave the talking to me -- I know how to deal with them.  
  
[Beren just looks at him, with his head a bit to the side]  
  
Would you stop giving me that look, please? This isn't like the last time.  
  
[On the far side of the room Amarie enters, with an air of assumed nonchalance and self-confidence. The Ten notice and look dismayed -- neither of the other two does, however.]  
  

Beren:  
    
What if it isn't your brothers? What if it's House Feanor again?  
  
[the Steward clears his throat loudly]  
  

Finrod: [oblivious]  
    
Again, I'm far better equipped to deal with any of my relatives than you are -- even if you're no more likely to be afflicted with scruples towards the following of Feanor than I am. Trust me on this, and leave all the unnecessary worries to me.  
  

Beren:  
    
What if it's one of the gods again? Or all of 'em? It sounds like they're a lot more fed up with you than they are with me. After all, I haven't got centuries of history between us to keep hauling up and slamming around like rocks at each other.  
  

Finrod: [lecturing mode]  
    
Beren, no one here is going to behave like Sauron. Yes, we have our differences, and grievances over the past -- and yes, before you say anything, we have our present differences and grievances as well -- but those are all minor -- or mostly minor -- and the big ones are for the most part resolved. If the Powers that are in charge of this place were going to punish me it would already have happened over the business of the ceilings and the aqueduct. A few more comments, sarcastic or otherwise, isn't going to make a difference one way or the other at this point.  
  

Beren:  
    
I dunno -- you can be awfully obnoxious when you put your mind to it, Sir.  
  

Finrod:  
    
And you can't? I don't want you drawing negative attention upon yourself from any other persons, divine or not, even if it's in my interest, because you still feel obscurely guilty and don't know how to accept help gracefully--  
  
[the Captain reaches over and taps Beren rather urgently on the shoulder, him being the closer of the two -- Beren looks over, sees, and bites his lip]  
  

Beren:  
    
What if it's Amarie again?  
  

Finrod: [indulgently]  
    
Wouldn't she fall into the category of "other persons, divine or not"--?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um, Sir -- that wasn't a rhetorical question.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finrod: [desperate bravado]  
    
I think the word you want is "hypothetical."  
  

Beren:  
    
No, I think the word we want is -- help.  
  
[Amarie stands there looking down on the scene, with folded arms and a pleasant fixed smile]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I think we've used up our quota of divine interventions for the day. Besides, given how peevish they're being, I wouldn't want to count on it being particularly helpful.  
  

Amarie: [sinister gentleness -- to the Ten:]  
    
Milords -- what curse or device hath laden withal my steps, that I might not find my way upon a straight path save only to return whence ever I didst go, howsoever I go?  
  
[nervous silence ]  
  
Whichever hast done this -- or whosoever kennest aught -- might answer: I care not which, so that I learn the truth.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Personally, I think that's a completely irrelevant question. I'd ask -- how is it done, and how would you change it? Those seem much more useful questions than worrying about which guilty party deserves punishment. --Particularly since no one did such a thing.  
  

Amarie: [same patient tone]  
    
If yon ringleader of runagates had troubled his insubstantial self to list to the words I did e'en now speak, he might perchance to have noted that such, in most pointed fact, was the selfsame word I asked of ye.  
  

Finrod: [to Beren]  
    
You did hear me say that you can't just walk from point to point here as though it were a field, or even a city, because somehow your will and unconscious intent determines where you end up. --Interesting confirmation that it works that way regardless of corporeal status -- it must be like the Labyrinth. Makes mapmaking no end of a challenge, that's for certain.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yep. --Only not that extra speculation. But you did warn her.  
  
[Amarie closes her eyes in an exasperated expression]  
  
Hey, does that mean you're saying she keeps coming back here because she really wants to be here?  
  

Finrod:  
    
No, but that is the logical implication of it, one's forced to conclude.  
  

Amarie:  
    
Is there none about of sense or civility to serve as guide, then?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Does anyone wish to explain to the noble lady that the Halls are very understaffed at present and the management has been called away to deal with more pressing matters than her ability to hold a grudge?  
  

Amarie: [lightly]  
    
One expects naught of present company, saving one's self, but surely there cannot be none of sense remaining in this place. What of the rest, that art held within? Have not many repaired here over the Age, in accordance with the stated Doom? And yet it hath emptier thoroughfares than either Tirion or Alqualonde ere Tilion's embarkation. Nothing of company, saving mine own shadow, and footfalls' echoes, have I met -- though worse companions there may be surely found within.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
It's like when there's going to be an earthquake or a hurricane -- everyone and everything with any sense has already gone to ground long since as soon as they sensed the coming of disaster.  
  

Steward:  
    
Don't -- make things worse.  
  

Captain:  
    
You're ascribing far too much to my competence.  
  

Amarie: [ice]  
    
I have naught else to say to ye miscreants.  
  

Captain: [fervent]  
    
Thank you, most kind Nienna!  
  

Amarie [sharply]  
    
\--Dost ken, then where the Lady shall be?  
  

Captain: [shaking his head regretfully]  
    
Knew it was too good to be true.   
  

Amarie: [caustic]  
    
Ay, well then, where the shepherd leads, the flock shall follow -- yet might expect to find greater part of wisdom in shepherd than sheep? But howso, indeed, if the leader doth follow his foolish charges, nor stay them from their folly, nor cease when they will to run past cliff's edge unto the Sea? For mad lieges, how else but a maddest of lords to be fitting?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [bewildered, trying to whisper, but not being nearly quiet enough, to the Warrior]  
    
I thought the Vanyar were supposed to be holy . . . ?  
  
[Amarie shoots him a fire-arrow Look and he quails]  
  

Amarie:  
    
And what kennest thou of holiness, that never didst behold the Light?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [abashed]  
    
\--Sorry.  
  

Amarie: [cutting]  
    
Shall a Turned One chide me, that was bred and born in Valmar, of the depths of his benighted ignorance? No more unfitting, I guess, than mortal shall the same!  
  
[Huan makes a grumbling unhappy noise, looking up from under his eyebrows at them in turn]  
  

Steward:  
    
My lady, restrain thy hostility towards those that in some wise merit it, nor set it against those who have shown far more of virtue than you yourself in steadfastness of affection.  
  
[they match stares in a fierce contest]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [dismayed aside]  
    
How can she tell?  
  

Beren: [scooting over to him]  
    
Probably the way we could when we met the King. Couldn't your people tell when they first came back that they weren't the same as you either? And it's even more obvious -- the way we are now. --Don't ask me how.  
  
[he puts an arm around the other's shoulders]  
  
Does it matter? That you're not Noldor? So you guys' ancestors didn't make it all the way on time. You're still fighting the fight, hm?  
  
[the Youngest Ranger gives him an uncertain look]  
  
Me, I'd rather hear "Sindar" or even "Nandor" any day of the week than "Kinslayer" -- being "Light-Elven" didn't help Curufin much, did it? --Or "mortal."  
  
[pause]  
  
If you don't look down on me, how come you think it's okay to look down on you? [the Sindarin Ranger smiles a little at this. The staring contest between Amarie and the Steward breaks off: he does not give way, and she tosses her head in dismissal]  
  

Amarie:  
    
If thou hast not lost all semblance of civility in yon rustic wilderness, Your Majesty, perhaps thou'lt deign to rise and greet me nor affect this foolish feignéd deafness--  
  
[raising her voice abruptly]  
  
\--Put aside that gaming music and stand and brave me, villain, or I swear that all the Ages of the world will pass ere thou'lt darken door of mine! Art too grand now, is't, to speak with such a lowly Elf as she who waits upon thy notice, being no Queen nor Princess of the Eldar? Fie!  
  
[with an indulgent sigh Finrod puts down the harp once again and rises, making an extravagant and far-too-ornate bow; the Ten, and Beren, get up awkwardly, while Huan only sits up and pays attention with cocked ears and quizzical look. The ex-couple are far too preoccupied to notice the distress of their audience, or to care if they did.]  
  

Finrod: [mildly]  
    
I'm listening.  
  
[pause]  
  
Now that you've commanded my attention -- did you actually have anything you wanted to say?  
  

Amarie: [earnestly, shaking her head]  
    
\--Why dost thou stay here, in this abysmal place, this mean estate, and tatterdemalion attendance, when thou shouldst walk free and fare abroad, held by naught, save by thine own choosing? All Aman doth hold thee mad for it -- none that has thine acquaintance, still more thy former fellowship in bygone Day, doth comprehend it, and all alike do judge thy loss hath reft thy mind withal.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I don't know why. It's very peaceful here -- most of the time, at least. I'd rather spend the next hundred-odd years of existence here, than being given reproachful looks and edged remarks and forbidden to answer them under the Sun.  
  
[Amarie spins around and begins walking quickly towards the door while Finrod stands with folded arms, looking after her and smiling sarcastically]  
  

Finrod: [loudly]  
    
Here we go again. --I wonder how many times we're going to repeat this little charade before the jester who started it comes and rescues us. I greatly doubt that there's any limit to her ability to walk off and leave me in shambles, all the while maintaining a perfect and impenetrable shield of pride, trailing my heart's blood through the wreckage from her dripping sword of hate!  
  
[the Ten -- and Beren -- wince in excruciation at having to witness this -- Huan gives a particularly ear-piercing keen and a reproachful look at Finrod. Amarie stops short in the archway as though an invisible door had been slammed in her face and stands perfectly still for a second -- then turns around and strides back, fast and furious, her draperies billowing behind her like sails of a galleon]  
  

Amarie: [as she is bearing down upon them, not stopping or slowing in speed or speech]  
    
Thou insolent, arrogant, amiable, thankless, flightsome, winsome, devious, treacherous, smiling fiend!!! How canst thou stand and say to me, withouten shred of compuntiliousness, that -- that -- any such of thing?!?  
  
[she is literally glowing with rage, though the soft ambient light somewhat dulls her aura]  
  
Thou -- thou -- thou Spider's get! --I made mock of thee? I left thee in tears and tatters? I ask ye -- all of ye, that stand unfriends to me--  
  
[she pauses to whirl and look at all the Ten in quick turn]  
  
\--all ye many that did stand upon that day, and sit to table at the Opening Hour, and sing our names and drink our joys, and eat the gift-bread that my hands did make -- which of us twain it was did go, and which it was, left standing lonely at the broken Feast, to follow like to a shadow 'midst shadows unto the sorrowing streets?  
  
[they are silent -- she gestures dramatically with her hand, waving them aside]  
  
Stay me not -- hinder me nor seek to, that did not hinder him, but led him to his fate and folly, that would not lose ye to the Dark, but had liefer lose me without backward look--  
  
[she can't keep going for the moment]  
  

Finrod: [very softly]  
    
Oh, I did look back--  
  

Amarie:  
    
\--and let him face me and flout me unto my very face, if he will call me foe, this mad japester --  
  
[she starts towards him again, the Ten moving aside helplessly before her indignation]  
  
\--that didst leave me half-bound, half-bride, to lie at thy feet as a forgotten bauble cast aside by careless child -- I that had gone counter to my kindred's hopes and deep desirings, and set aside their wish and every will, to be his lady and his love, and all for naught, that he should go from me and me a-weeping in my festal raiment 'neath our wedding garlands in the mournful hall!  
  
[by this point she is crying as she speaks without it interfering with her words or her anger -- tears run down her cheeks as she stares furiously at him -- they look like a pair of duellists, despite lack of weapons]  
  

Finrod: [patiently (far too patiently, in fact)]  
    
Obviously no one in his right mind would keep on celebrating -- Acclamation or not -- when the Trees had just gone out. You're being utterly irrational -- again. Should I have said, "Keep playing, keep singing, keep feasting, I'm sure it's nothing much?" No. Everyone in Tirion went to see what the matter was. Quite sensibly. --Even you, as you've just said.  
  
[Amarie just stands there, totally speechless, listening to him in amazement]  
  
Why do you insist on bringing your family's long-standing disapproval of me into it, as if that had anything to do with the slaughter of the Trees, or any relevance to the events of that Night? You keep trying to fit it all together backwards, somehow. And I was perfectly willing to change the date -- you were the one who made your parents choose between attending our Acclamation and participating in the concert -- after we found out about the scheduling conflict. And afterwards when I came back -- as I'd promised \-- to conclude the ceremony -- you hit me.  
  

Amarie: [snapping]  
    
Aye, and I'll so again, and gladly, till thou dost weep e'en as I -- if thou'lt not for very shame at putting me to shame.  
  

Finrod: [offhand]  
    
I've given up expecting rational behaviour from someone whose response to getting what she asked for is violent rejection. --You keep changing modes and pronouns in your address, too.  
  
[she moves for him as he is speaking]  
  

Beren: [in the process of stepping between them, gives Finrod a shocked look]  
    
\--You did what?!?  
  
[they both freeze, staring at him, as he stands half-turned from Amarie to Finrod]  
  
I didn't really hear you say that, did I? You really walked out on her halfway through the wedding and expected she'd welcome you back after with open arms?  
  
[Finrod is speechless]  
  
Don't tell me you did that  
and then said, "Okay, honey, let's go to bed and in the morning we'll become fugitives"--!  
  

Finrod: [reflexive defensiveness]  
    
There wasn't going to be a morning at that point.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head in astonishment]  
    
No wonder she punched you halfway across the dinner table!  
  

Finrod: [dismayed]  
    
Beren, not you too!  
  

Beren: [grabbing his shoulder]  
    
But you can't do that to someone! Don't you understand? We had wars over people doing that. You never said you jilted her!  
  

Finrod:  
    
Wars?  
  

Amarie:  
    
"Jilted?"  
  

Finrod:  
    
Wars?!  
  

Beren:  
    
Six or seven people got killed and five barns were burnt and a fishing weir pulled down and the cattle raids didn't stop until your brothers showed up and four generations later there were still families not speaking to each other--  
  
[getting quieter]  
  
\--and I guess that's really pretty lame of a war -- but still.  
  

Finrod: [still skeptical]  
    
I never heard about that.  
  

Beren:  
    
You think anyone was going to want to explain it?  
  

Finrod: [to the Captain]  
    
Did you know about this?  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
I do recall thinking that the stories about the Summer with Five Direct Lightning Strikes and a Flash Flood seemed a bit implausible and that your brothers seemed rather blasé about so many unlucky coincidences, which would seem to indicate stepped-up Enemy activity -- but everything seemed under control and everyone very anxious not to get into it, and since you hadn't given us orders to investigate it, we presumed it was something better left unsaid, given their usual level of caution and alertness regarding the War.  
  

Finrod: [switching from disbelief to indignation]  
    
Why didn't they tell me?  
  

Captain: [utterly bland]  
    
I would have to ask them to find out, Sire.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--However, at a reasonable guess, they might well have felt awkward in mentioning such a -- sensitive topic, quite apart from the embarrassment of having lost order and control in territories still technically under their authority, though no longer under the Princes' direct control.  
  
[Finrod bites his lip, looking away]  
  

Beren:  
    
See, there was this one time when there was supposed to be a wedding, and everyone was there, and she never showed up, and people got worried because there was a lot of snow that winter--  
  

Finrod: [interrupting, peevish]  
    
\--You never celebrated Acclamations in winter--  
  

Beren: [patiently]  
    
No, this was spring, but there was a lot of runoff because of the snow that winter. And because the bride's party never showed up, they thought maybe there was a landslide or a flash flood or something, or maybe a bridge was down and they couldn't make it, or maybe even an Enemy raid had slipped through the eastern pass again, and there were search parties getting ready, and then someone brought the word that she'd gone off with someone else and married him instead, and since there was already everybody armed up and ready to go, it just -- went on from there. And my great-great-grandfather had to try to break it up, and he did, and we even contributed to the damages fund so that there wouldn't be any excuse for fighting over bride-price and dowry, but it kept breaking out again because everyone was so insulted.  
  
[to Amarie, who is listening with fascinated horror]  
  
\--When I say "we" I mean my family, because I wasn't born yet then. I remember Ma saying that it was really stupid that she let it get that far, because obviously it wasn't going to work and they should have known that before the bridal ale was laid down, because you don't go and marry someone else at the last minute who's a random stranger -- she shouldn't ever have said yes if she really didn't want to go through with it, let alone if there was anybody else who was in the running -- but the humiliation factor of leaving your intended standing at the hall-door couldn't be an accident. That's why it went to a war. That, and the fact that her whole family's cooperation was involved, obviously.  
  
[silence]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Must e'en thou deride me, mortal killer?!  
  

Beren: [confused]  
    
Ah, no -- that's just the way it happened.  
  

Amarie:  
    
. . .  
  

Captain:  
    
Milady, if the Lord of Dorthonion were mocking you -- there would be no mistaking it for anything else.  
  

Amarie: [through her teeth]  
    
I will not be made sport of by houseless rebels!  
  
[she starts to stride towards the archway again]  
  

Finrod: [calling after her in a reasonable tone]  
    
I'm sure that if you chose to consider it null and marry someone else, no one could possibly criticize you, seeing that--  
  



	15. Scene III.iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.iii

  
  
    [Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[Luthien is sitting down again, but on the edge of her seat as though at any moment she's going to be up again, glaring furiously at a new Elven-shade, a distinguished and serious looking fellow who was one of the many bystanders in Act I at the court of Doriath. He could be played by Anthony Stewart Head, (courtesy of Mutant Enemy Productions) and at the moment he's looking extremely distressed.]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I cannot begin to express how grieved I am, Princess, to discover that after all our efforts to keep you safe, and all the improbable escapes and scrapes you managed to get out of, you have ended up here all the same.  
  

Luthien: [shortly]  
    
  Well, I'm not particularly happy to see you either.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
That's a terribly harsh thing to say after I got killed trying to secure help and justice on your behalf.  
  
[shaking his head sadly]  
  
I would never have expected such callousness and lack of nobility from that sweet child you used to be. It's got to be the influence of that repulsive Man corrupting you.  
  
[Luthien's eyes blaze. Slowly and deliberately and ominously she gets up and paces over towards him -- as he leans back nervously we get a glimpse of what Sauron might have seen coming for him on the Bridge -- and stands in front of him with an icy look of righteous indignation]  
  

Luthien:  
    
You told Dad to lock me up in Hirilorn.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I wasn't the only one!  
  

Luthien: [grim]  
    
Oh, believe me, I know.  
  

Vaire: [to Namo]  
    
You know, darling, I'm not sure this was such a good idea. Even if it was mine.  
  


  



	16. Scene III.ii - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  
  
    
[Amarie whirls and stalks towards him -- simultaneously Finrod backs up and Beren starts to move in between them again]  
  

Amarie: [shouting]  
    
\--But I did not want to wed any other consort!  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [very quietly]  
    
I'm sorry.  
  

Amarie:  
    
Hold, thou prating wretch!!!  
  
[she resumes her trajectory and sweeps out again. There is a long, awkward silence -- the Ten try obviously not to be obviously present.]  
  

Finrod: [brightly, to Beren]  
    
So now you've taken her side too.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
There's no sides in this.  
  

Finrod:  
    
But you think I'm wrong.  
  

Beren:  
    
You thought you were wrong too, that's what you used to say.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Why is it any different now -- or why does it appear differently now -- than at the beginning of the conversation?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
It -- it's just different. It isn't like any other kind of breaking up or contract-ending or anything. You just have to take my word for it.  
  
[sudden inspiration]  
  
What you did to her -- that kind of a cut -- it was the same as Nargothrond.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Nargothrond, eh?  
  
[pause -- deceptively light tone ]  
  
So you're saying it's hopeless.  
  

Beren: [shaking head]  
    
No. She's talking to you. Even at second-hand -- that's a good sign. If it was really hopeless she wouldn't have come to tell you it was hopeless. Means there's room for negotiations.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Negotiations don't always end satisfactorily -- for anyone.  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
I know. I'm just saying, there's a chance. You could end up the same, or you could make it worse even. You can't -- I can't believe I'm telling you how to deal with people -- but you're taking this very superior, very haughty tone, putting all the distance to cross on her, and you don't have that high ground. I mean -- Sir, you betrayed her and publicly humiliated her after she had already taken grief for marrying beneath her, and declared for you regardless, and now you're asking her to risk it again for a pardoned rebel.  
  

Finrod: [stiffly]  
    
I'm not asking anything.  
  

Beren:  
    
I know. That's what I'm trying to say, only it's confusing and I'm muddling it worse. I know it seems like she's being unreasonable right now, but you've put her in an unreasonable situation. No wonder you're both stuck -- you're making her come and bend the knee without giving anything in return.  
  

Finrod: [more haughty]  
    
I apologized.  
  

Beren:  
    
You ripped her heart out and threw it in the mud! And stomped on it a couple times. You don't just say, "Sorry about that, I'm willing to forget about it if you are" --!  
  
[someone quickly stifles a nervous laugh; long pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
So you're saying that I ought to abase myself thoroughly, grovel even, spare no opportunity to castigate myself before her . . . ?  
  

Beren:  
    
No, Sir. That would just be doing the same thing another way. If you aren't sincere -- don't you think she'll be able to tell? If you're just acting like she's being cruel but you're willing to suffer and put up with it, that's just claiming you're in the right as much as the other. Only you'll make it worse, because you'll make it look like she's being unjust.  
  

Finrod:  
    
What else could I have done? You remember the stories about that insanity, the outcry, the chaos, even before Feanor showed up to throw flames into spilt oil -- how should I have acted? What should I have done?  
  

Beren: [bluntly]  
    
Something that wasn't what you did.  
  
[Finrod glares at him]  
I -- I'm sorry, I -- it's beyond arrogant for me to lecture you about your own folk. I really -- don't know that any of this is true for anyone besides Men . . .  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Your people have a word for it. The wise listen to experience.  
  
[sighing]  
  
\--Cut off, pinned down, and no high ground -- can you get me out of this Fen, Beor?  
  
[Beren looks dismayed]  
  
If you can break us free of the trap we've driven ourselves into, you'll render me a greater service than did your father.  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Because I can't. I keep saying the same damned things -- or thinking them -- and we just repeat the measure again and again. Even when it's only in my imagining -- and then it plays out exactly as I've Seen it, right up to the point when you jump in between and change it all.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir -- my own relationship has not been the smoothest, to put it bluntly.  
  

Finrod: [mildly]  
    
You two are still speaking to each other, last time I checked. --I'm not asking you to do the impossible, Beren -- no, I am rather, at that -- Only to try.  
  
[Beren laughs helplessly, shaking his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
Of course. If you're sure. --You know what happens to my projects.  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Expansion of scope far beyond any reasonable assessment, followed by utter chaos, culminating in divine intervention? --I'm counting on it.  
  
[sighing]  
  
New plan. You do whatever  
you want. I'm not going to tell you what to do or what not to do. Save this -- if you need help, summon me. If you think you might need help -- summon me. If you're not sure -- likewise.  
  
[He turns back to the fountain and washes his face before picking up the harp again. Sitting down on one of the boulders along the margin he begins to play quietly again, ignoring -- apparently -- everything else. Beren looks after him, worried]  
  

Beren:  
    
Is he going to be okay?  
  

Captain:  
    
He needs time alone. It's been a difficult thing to come by, these past ten years.  
  
[pause]  
  
That was impressive, you getting in between them like that.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Dumb, you mean. It didn't even occur to me that -- well, that we're just ghosts and she couldn't've done anything to him.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then that only makes it more courageous.  
  

Beren:  
    
But she couldn't really touch us, right? That's what she told Tinuviel.  
  

Captain:  
    
In theory, no. It's never been put to the test, though.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
\--So far as anyone knows. Not here. And no one's asked the houseless in Beleriand what it's like to have someone walk through you. It -- it just wasn't the sort of thing one asked.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Not to mention the fact that on such rare occasions the mind was occupied in fighting or trying to free them.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Yes, but wouldn't it have seemed crass in any case?  
  

Steward: [nodding agreement]  
    
One assumes there could be no contact at all, but it doesn't seem as though it could be anything but disturbing.  
  

Soldier:  
    
\--And we're not really sure what might happen if the soul of someone living collided with someone discorporate. There's speculation that it might be like getting hit by lightning, only without the subsequent discorporation--  
  

Steward:  
    
\--obviously--  
  

Ranger:  
    
\--When did you get hit by lightning?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Stop it--  
  

Ranger:  
    
No, really, how else would one know it was like getting hit by lightning, if one hadn't experienced that?  
  

Captain:  
    
There's also speculation that it wouldn't have any result if the corporate didn't believe in the discorporate's, hm, presence? --reality?  
  

Beren:  
    
But how can you be trying to hit someone if you don't think they're really there?  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
That's probably not the best description. I'm not sure that you've got the concepts to understand the terminology, sorry. --Mind you, I'm not sure that I've got them, myself.  
  

Warrior:  
    
And then there is also the corollary, which is that if someone believed that one was, er, real, or enough, then the reverse would be true.  
  

Beren:  
    
So what you're saying is that if someone alive didn't have doubts like Amarie said about it being possible, maybe they would . . . um . . . stop, at the . . . edges? "Mental boundaries" maybe?  
  
[reaches over and taps the Warrior's arm]  
  
\--Like we do?  
  
[nods all round]  
  
But it could be that having someone living walk through you or bust your jaw for that matter -- might be like having a pail of ice water thrown at you or something.  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
It might only be like a mild breeze.  
  

Steward:  
    
Under the circumstances one can but fervently hope so.  
  

Beren:  
    
But nobody knows because you haven't tested it.  
  
[deadpan]  
  
\--Wow, I'm surprised.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Well, how would we?  
  

Captain:  
    
The staff already think we're lunatics as it is. Can you really see asking Lord Namo or his Lady to not walk around us because we want to see what an intersection experience is like?  
  

Steward:  
    
Lady Nia might oblige.  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you want to ask her? I'd be embarrassed.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Besides, it might not mean anything anyway. The gods already walk in this plane, so it probably wouldn't be a valid test.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
What about that kid who's working for her?  
  

Captain:  
    
You ask.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Same problem, anyway.  
  

Soldier: [aside]  
    
We think, at any rate.  
  

Beren:  
    
So we're just going to have to wonder, since it hasn't happened yet, when two spirits -- intersect? -- what happens then.  
  

Ranger:  
    
But it's possible--  
  
[breaks off]  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  

Captain:  
    
Don't \-- he'll come undone again.  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [reluctantly]  
    
It's possible you already have. We don't know if they drift aside like a leaf in front of a boat's prow, or -- or not. The ones who won't come out of hiding at all. We don't even know how diffuse their consciousness is. Since we can't ask them -- we're left to speculate.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That's not true, Sir, the King's asked them, they just won't answer.  
  

Captain:  
    
That's what I just said, isn't it? "The ones who won't come out of hiding at all."  
  

Beren: [distressed]  
    
Please -- don't snap at each other.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
We're all on edge because we're worried for you.  
  

Captain:  
    
And the ones who have left off moping don't want to talk about being dissipated either. Or they don't remember. Even Himself isn't sure if he really stayed in the corner all that time, or if it's an imagining and not a memory of being in a haze of grief.  
  

Beren: [bluntly]  
    
So what you're saying is I could have walked through who knows how many other ghosts already.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
\--Please don't get upset again.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [half-smiles at them]  
    
Okay.  
  
[he sighs, shakes his head, and looks away.]  
  

Second Guard: [helpfully]  
    
Do you want to try working on your combat skills? We can help you with the retraining.  
  

Beren: [bitter]  
    
Waste of time, if I'm just going to be kicked out of the world.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't know that it will work out that way. We're hoping for the best.  
  

Soldier: [encouragingly]  
    
It'll be great to have you on our side for the next one. There's been talk about doing the First Battle, and it's starting to sound like it might happen finally.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Besides, it'll make the time pass quicker.  
  

Steward: [ironic]  
    
\--That is to say, it may make it seem to do so.  
  

Beren: [tearful frustration]  
    
No. I've tried. I can't do it.  
  
[He looks down, thoroughly embarrassed, while they look at him helplessly -- long pause]  
  

Fourth Guard: [intensely]  
    
Okay.  
  
[he touches Beren's shoulder.]  
  
\--It's okay.  
  
[Beren nods, still not able to speak]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Do you want to play chess?  
  

Beren: [after a moment]  
    
Okay.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Do you care what we use?  
  

Beren:  
    
No. Why?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I was just wondering . . . pebbles sometimes roll off their places. You don't mind if I make a set, do you?  
  

Beren:  
    
That's fine -- go ahead and do it the way you want.  
  
[he watches in bemusement as the other manifests a tafl board and pieces, setting them down on the floor by the edge of the pool on a convenient bit of the "ledges" that now make up the vicinity, and picks up one with a wondering smile]  
  
It even feels heavy.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That's because you know how heavy stone's supposed to be. You can't fool yourself here.  
  

Beren: [speculatively]  
    
Other people, though.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [nods]  
    
Sometimes. It depends. You want to go first?  
  

Soldier: [to the Youngest Ranger]  
    
You know, I'm not trying to denigrate your work -- it's very fine and naturalistic, but it really doesn't fit just jammed up there against the flat wall like that. It looks strange.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
It wasn't done for looks. Go ahead and fix it if you think you can come up with something better. It'll have to be taken down eventually anyway.  
  

Soldier:  
    
What about some kind of surround or framing device to gradually bring it to the level of the facing?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I'm playing chess. I don't care. Just remember that you'll find out what your fate is that's worse than death if another pipe gets broken. And I won't take the blame for that.  
  

Soldier:  
    
Spoilsport.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Who was it vanished when the sconce broke?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Yes, but I came right back. You only noticed because you were trying to hide behind me anyway. --You know that only makes it more obvious that you're trying not to be noticed.  
  

Ranger: [to his colleague]  
    
You want to make a bet on whether he breaks something?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [patiently]  
    
No, I want to play mortal chess with Beren. I think I've got a workable strategy I want to try.  
  

Ranger: [to the Soldier]  
    
Why don't you make a frieze around it, really low-relief, that has a scene of a forest, and then it wouldn't look like rocks coming out of nowhere? 
Soldier: I thought a semi-naturalistic surround, like a doorway, myself.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Won't that just look as though you've got three incompatible things grafted together?  
  

Soldier:  
    
No, see, if I do this\--  
  
[they go over & start sketching on the wall surface in the background, while the others settle down to watch them (and give more advice) or to watch the chess game, all very carefully not intruding on Finrod's privacy.]  
  

Beren: [thoughtfully]  
    
You know, you could have some of you . . . vanish, and see what happens if somebody walks through you, and then compare observations after. Couldn't you?  
  
[pause]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I don't think any of us is really that curious. Not even him. --Your move.  
  


  



	17. Scene III.iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE III.iv**

  
  
     [The Hall.]  
  
[The scene has not changed much from before -- there is now a complicated and ever-changing tracery of light on the back wall as various people contribute ideas and erase bits from the sketch, but otherwise the subdued, yet casual ambience remains the same, another chessboard has been set up, Huan is being happily used as a backrest, and Finrod is still seated off a short ways from everyone else, so quietly that he would almost seem in a sleep-trance, if he weren't playing steadily in a very wistful, almost Mixolydian-mode progression of runs and bell-like changes. ("The Last Rose of Summer" and "Scotland the Brave" are both Mixolydian, combining what we think of as major and minor.) His lieges, for all their relaxation, are also very carefully maintaining a perimeter around Beren -- so that when the Princes return, still looking for their brother (now having had time to work up a proper righteous huff about Beren's presence) the alert and defense are instant.]  
  

Third Guard: [warning tone]  
    
Sire--  
  
[the rest of the Ten, and Huan, tense -- all attention goes between Finrod and Beren, as the King gives him a serious questioning Look. Beren, meeting his stare directly, shakes his head, and after a moment Finrod nods in acceptance. Everyone stays "at ease" (on the surface, that is) as the other two sons of Finarfin -- after doing a severe double take at the changes, reorient themselves and come over to the waterfall.]  
  

Angrod: [acridly]  
    
I don't want to know.  
  

Aegnor: [with a sarcastic smile -- he seems to have gotten hold of himself for the present]  
    
Unfortunately I doubt very much that will be possible for very long. --Finrod, what the bloody blazes is this nonsense? I thought you weren't allowed to do this kind of thing any more.  
  
[Finrod doesn't answer, apparently not aware of them -- Aegnor snorts in disgust.]  
  
Again -- what in Morgoth's name is all this madness about?  
  
[no answer still]  
  
\--Are you having a relapse, or what?  
  
[they start to approach his refuge -- the Steward  
gets up and blocks them.]  
  

Steward:  
    
I am afraid I must inform you that King Felagund is not admitting visitors at the present moment. I am certain, however, that as soon as he is no longer preoccupied he will  
be most willing to meet with you.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
But we're his brothers!  
  

Steward: [bowing slightly]  
    
I believe that I am as aware of that fact as he, or you twain.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
You've never blocked us from seeing him in the past!  
  

Steward:  
    
It has never been necessary to protect him from you in the past.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
You don't--  
  

Angrod: [interrupting]  
    
What do you mean, protect him from us?  
  

Steward: [cold]  
    
Your wrath precedes you like the smell of burning and wraps you like a cloud of smoke. I won't have you harassing him with any of you in your present tempers. There's been enough distressing him tod-- lately.  
  

Angrod: [nodding towards Beren, whom they have been ignoring]  
    
And the reason for it's squatting on the floor right there. We're not the problem -- that one is.  
  

Steward: [adamant]  
    
Leave The Beoring alone.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
You're still protecting him! Do you know how perverse that is?  
  

Steward:  
    
Your Highnesses -- I have warned you. Follow this path and the consequences be upon your own head.  
  
[they check briefly, looking somewhat worried at  
the vague prediction.]  
  

Angrod:  
    
What consequences?  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
That remains -- to be seen.  
  

Angrod: [disgusted snort]  
    
You're just being cryptic to make us think you actually know something.  
  

Steward:  
    
That is a possibility.  
  
[the Princes circle around to where Beren is still engaged in his match, though everyone else -- with the exception of Finrod  
\-- has left off even pretense of their pastimes and is watching closely]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
If it were in point of fact possible to speak one false here, I'd think you made up that story about Amarie. I've not seen anyone who oughtn't be here -- except for that one.  
  

Beren: [conversationally]  
    
You missed her. She's been and gone again.  
  
[at this escalation they stop in their stalking and halt a little ways off. The Youngest Ranger ducks down almost to his knees, staring at the kingstone pieces as if they might hold a rescue in them. Beren reaches over and pokes his hand]  
  
You forgot to take the other piece.  
  
[distractedly his companion collects the pawn from the board]  
  

Aegnor: [pleasantly]  
    
I really did expect something a bit more prepossessing, after all the stories and so forth. Not this pathetic collection of rags-and-tatters incapable of buckling his own belt.  
  
[there is a long hair-raising growl from Huan and some metallic noises as blades are drawn, or half-drawn around them]  
  

Third Guard: [iron]  
    
Don't make fun of that.  
  
[there is a very uncomfortable pause -- the Princes only now noticing Beren's disability, and being somewhat abashed at their faux pas]  
  

Fourth Guard: [choked]  
    
You should apologize . . .Your Highness.  
  

Beren: [cool, but commanding]  
    
'Sokay. --Actually, that I can manage by myself. There's a lot of things I can't do one-handed, but I don't need my wife to do everything for me.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What . . . befell your sword-hand?  
  

Beren:  
    
Long story. You missed that one too. If you want to actually sit down and listen I'm sure someone would be happy to fill you in, but I'm kind of beat right now and I don't really want to go through it all over again. Also, I admit that it's kind of embarrassing that the only time in the last nine years I've had clean clothes that actually fit was after I was dead, but you know, I never planned on having my homeland overrun and everything I owned destroyed or lost or stolen -- "hunted outlaw" was not my first career choice, so far as I had my life planned.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Aren't you ashamed to sit amidst this present company and smirk and speak thus presumptuously?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope.  
  
[pause]  
  
I'm not ashamed of any of my friends.  
  

Angrod:  
    
It is simply grotesque \-- that all of you together should enjoy his favour.  
  
[looks challengingly over at Finrod, who continues as if oblivious to their presence]  
  

Captain: [easily]  
    
One consequence might be to make me reconsider my resolution against challenging you, my lord.  
  

Angrod:  
    
Why are you still protecting him?  
  

Captain: [shrugging]  
    
Why stop now?  
  

Beren:  
    
Just to be perfectly clear -- I didn't ask anyone to stick up for me.  
  

Aegnor: [nodding towards his oldest sibling]  
    
I'm surprised he isn't leaping in to defend you again.  
  

Beren: [moving a piece]  
    
I told him not to.  
  
[to his opponent]  
  
\--Path.  
  
[silence]  
  

Angrod:  
    
You -- told him not to--?!?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yep.  
  
[to the Youngest Ranger]  
  
Your move. --Don't let 'em rattle you.  
  
[as the other looks up nervously again and then hunkers down]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Shouldn't that be -- asked, at the very least?  
  
[Beren shakes his head, still studying the board]  
  

Beren:  
    
No, he asked me if he should and I told him no. --Not in so many words.  
  

Angrod:  
    
Aren't you ashamed to share the same Circle with him? Far less to continue sponging off his good will and sympathies?  
  
[Beren doesn't say anything, only making a move now it's his turn]  
  
\--If you really claim lordship  
of Dorthonion, then you ought to remember that part of that is submission in the chain of command to Aegnor and myself.  
  
[Beren sighs and looks up at him]  
  

Beren:  
    
Look, I'm sorry you guys got killed at the Bragollach. And I'm sorry you--  
  
[to Aegnor]  
  
\--ditched my aunt An' and never made it up with her and it's too late now. But you know, I didn't have anything to do with all that, and -- guess what, he's right, they're not my problems, really. And I don't feel guilty about them.  
  
[silence]  
  

Angrod:  
    
\--What about our brother?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah.  
  
[pause]  
  
But it's not like anything could ever stop him from helping me.  
  

Angrod:  
    
You could have not gone to him in the first place. Is that not the truth, --Beor?  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
\--If there was anyone else I could have gone to. But everyone else who owes me favors is either dead and long gone, or long gone and maybe dead.  
  

Aegnor: [fiercely]  
    
You were still free not to involve him.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Maybe so. Maybe I should've just walked away from Tinuviel and left her in Neldoreth and disappeared out of her life. But I couldn't do that. Maybe it was mortal weakness.  
  
[shrugs]  
  
I'm not you. --I'm not even Noldor, which could be part of it, as my wife has pointed out, since she--  
  
[after the first sentence Aegnor, after a second for this to sink in, starts to lunge for him. The Youngest Ranger, still looking apprehensive and conflicted, stands up and blocks him. As they stand confronted, the others close in a tight cordon and wall between the Princes and Beren. Huan follows them, to stand leaning over Beren's shoulder, panting -- and showing an awful lot of teeth.]  
  

Angrod:  
    
You disgusting parasite. --What have you done to trap so many of your betters into serving you?  
  
[this being unanswerable, Beren just looks at him through the rank of defenders, not giving any ground]  
  

Captain:  
    
Milords. We've heard this song, and it's getting very boring. If you keep insisting on afflicting us with this tune, we may be compelled to give your thirsty invention some fresh inspiration.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What are you talking  
about?  

Captain:  
    
\--Or cool your fiery humours, as the case may be.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Talk sense, or don't talk at all!  
  

Captain: [nods towards the waterfall's pool]  
    
I mean, my lords, we'll pitch you in at the deep end.  
  
[pause]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
There isn't a deep end in these little fishless fishponds.  
  

Soldier:  
    
There is now, milord. From erosion caused by the force of water.  
  

Angrod:  
    
It hasn't been that long--!  
  

Ranger:  
    
\--Verisimilitude.  
  

Aegnor: [nodding towards their eldest brother]  
  
    
You're all as daft as he is.  
  

Captain: [offhand]  
    
Quite so -- and a lot more of us than there are of you.  
  
[The Princes look at the intervening rank and think about it]  
  

Angrod: [to Finrod]  
    
Are you going to stand by and allow this?  
  

Finrod: [sets down the harp, lifting his hands]  
    
What makes you think I have any control over it? This is not Beleriand. Father's King over the Noldor now, and if Grandfather hadn't refused to interact with anyone, he, not I, would be possessed of such shadowy authority as our Lord and Lady are gracious to permit within these halls -- and since Feanor's so crazy that not even his own people here can deal with him, that falls instead to the High King, so far as he cares to exercise it.  
  

Angrod: [biting]  
    
You're lecturing us like little kids, --Ingold.  
  
[Finrod shrugs again]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I might not be king, but I am still your older brother.  
  
[pause -- his siblings give him disgruntled glares]  
  

Aegnor: [suddenly]  
    
You died because of him!  
  

Finrod:  
    
And with him.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
And that should make any difference?  
  

Finrod: [meaningfully]  
    
You ought to be able to answer that as well as I.  
  
[edged tolerant tone]  
  
\--Why don't you two run along now and find something harmless to amuse yourselves with? Go pick fights with the Formenos lot or play some chess with our uncle, if you can't think of anything constructive to do.  
  
[he picks up with the music again -- this time it's a lot quicker and brighter: closer to "The Minstrel Boy" instead of "Last Rose of Summer."]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Stop treating us like children!  
  

Finrod:  
    
Stop acting like them, then. I expect better of you than this.  
  
[there is a brief staring contest, before the younger Finarfinions break off and turn to leave, still indignant]  
  

Angrod: [parting shot mode]  
    
Are you sure he really is a Beoring? He doesn't look much like one.  
  
[Finrod scowls, but shakes his head when several of the Ten silently offer to go after the Princes for that. There is a general sigh of relief and nervous humour, once they are gone, and everyone settles back down.]  
  

Captain: [sitting down on Beren's other side, scratching Huan behind the foreleg]  
    
You were very restrained when he insulted your mother. Most mortals I've known wouldn't have been so detatched.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
He wasn't really.  
  
[to the Youngest Ranger, who is frowning hard at the board now]  
  
Did you go yet?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Er -- they rattled me. Sorry.  
  

Beren:  
    
Me too. Take your time.  
  
[to the Captain]  
  
Verbal attacking when you feel guilty doesn't seem to be just a human trait, huh?  
  
[he sighs again]  
  
That's why they never visited Dorthonion in my lifetime, isn't it? It wasn't just that it didn't seem like a long time between visits to them.  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah . . .  
  

Beren:  
    
I take it that's a yes.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes.  
  
[he grimaces, shaking his head a little, looking off into the distance]  
  

Beren:  
    
Would it make you feel better if I yelled at you some?  
  
[the Captain raises his eyebrows, and Beren gives him a quizzical look back for a moment, then shakes his head]  
  
Sorry, I just can't make myself do it.  
  

Captain: [quietly]  
    
I'll try to forgive you.  
  
[Beren holds out his hand]  
  

Beren:  
    
Don't joggle me this time, okay?  
  
[the Captain opens and passes him the flask. Deliberately, with a wicked glint:]  
  
\--To your very good health, my lord.  
  
[he drinks and hands it back]  
  

Captain:  
    
And to your own, my lord.  
  
[he toasts Beren in turn, laughing gently at them both.]  
  
Shall we be singing comic songs, next?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
Maybe later. If we feel like it then. --You know, I didn't realize that wasn't just wine until I finally had some in Menegroth. Then I remembered what wine was supposed to taste like, and I figured out that what he'd given me must have been the magic cordial of the Elves.  
  

Captain: [snorting]  
    
You and "magic"--!  
  
[Beren grins]  
  
\--Are you . . . all right, now?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. --Mostly.  
  
[pause]  
  
Yourself?  
  

Captain: [equal honesty]  
    
Mostly.  
  

Beren: [nodding toward Finrod]  
    
Why did he call him Ingold?  
  
[brief pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Because it's one of his names.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yes, but he said it like it meant something. --Particular.  
  
[pause -- the Captain looks over his shoulder to Finrod]  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you want to explain it yourself, Sire, or shall I?  
  
[Finrod nods towards him, without breaking his play, but with a look of barely concealed amusement]  
  
"Ingold" is an after-name -- you know about those.  
  

Beren: [nodding in turn]  
    
Like Tinuviel. Or me calling myself "Empty-handed." --Or Felagund.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but Ingold is different from those examples. It -- it's the name Lady Earwen gave to him.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
There's something about mother-names, isn't there? They're supposed to say something about you, or something, right?  
  

Steward:  
    
Put with admirably-vague conciseness.  
  
[he is amused by all this too]  
  

Captain: [nodding]  
    
Such as their mother's oft-repeated remark in answer to congratulations on a daughter at last, that no, really she had five sons, only one of them happened to be female. Of course, you can never be quite sure if things like that only reflect the future, or shape it, what with people's expectations.  
  

Beren:  
    
So what's it mean? His nickname, I mean.  
  
[Finrod's chief counsellors exchange a sly look, and the Steward starts to speak, but then Beren interrupts]  
  
\--Wait, wait, I think I figured it out.  
  
[he looks rather smug]  
  
It's the same as the word "ingole," isn't it? -- that means lore, right?  
  

Steward: [gravely]  
    
"Ingole" means lore, yes.  
  

Beren:  
    
But am I right about how it's the same?  
  

Steward:  
    
Mainly. They are close akin. Ingole is more general, ingold more specific.  
  
[at Beren's frown]  
  
It's a personal form, but it's essentially the same as the singular of "Noldor."  
  
[Beren nods in satisfaction]  
  

Beren: [sudden direct look to Finrod]  
  
    
She called you the same thing we did. --Basically.  
  
[Finrod nods again, with a rueful smile.]  
  
No wonder you said it freaked you out when we called you "Wisdom." I bet you weren't expecting that.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Be fair -- I was still rather unsettled from having been told, somewhat insistently, that I was a god -- as if I might be mistaken about it, somehow.  
  

Beren: [deadpan]  
    
Are you sure about that, Sir?  
  
[there is a loud jangling discord, and Beren grins, if a bit shyly still]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Um -- "Field," -- I think. --Sorry.  
  

Beren: [after looking at the board]  
  
    
Hey, that's good. Set 'em up again?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Okay.  
  
[behind them all Finrod carries on his music, looking over his band of loyallists with an expression that is at once proud and considering, calm but very serious in his composure. Yes, he is still very much the King, whether he likes it or not.]  
  
 _[to be continued...]_  


  



	18. Scene III.v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.v

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[Luthien is sitting on the floor next to her chair with her back against it and her arms wrapped around her knees, not looking at all happy, cooperative or diplomatic. Everyone else looks equally frustrated at this point]  
  

Vaire: [to her husband]  
    
I hope your idea works better than mine.  
  

Namo: [nursing his teacup and looking moodily into its depths]  
    
Me too.  
  

Luthien: [exclaiming loudly to the ceiling]  
    
  This is so tiresome! Why can't you even let Beren be here to speak for himself?  
  

Irmo:  
    
You'd only fight with him, don't you think? After all, that's what you two have been doing ever since you rescued him. That alone should make it clear that you're not really intended for each other, I should say.  
  
[three of the four other Powers present nod in agreement; Aule looks distinctly uncomfortable.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
That's just because of the way things were happening. It didn't really mean anything.  
  

Orome:  
    
You could have fooled us.  
  
[she gives him a disgruntled look and tosses her head]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Besides, you must see that he's responsible for all of your unhappiness, no matter how much you'd like to pretend otherwise, my dear.  
  
[aside]  
  
And everyone else's as well.  
  

Luthien: [hotly]  
    
That's not true! Not even Mablung blamed him for any of it, not even about Carcaroth.  
  
[the Ambassador flinches visibly at the mention of the Wolf.]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
How -- is -- Captain Mablung doing? --When you last saw him, of course.  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
Weakened by his wounds, sick with werewolf venom, and heartsick over the fact that he failed three times at his job.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Failed --? I'm afraid I don't understand what you're referring to, Princess.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Not keeping me safe, not keeping you safe, and not keeping Dad safe. The last time I saw him he was terribly upset that Beren got killed doing his work for him.  
  
[silence]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Surely -- I've misunderstood. You didn't say--  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--that Beren got killed guarding my father from Carcaroth. Yes.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
But Elu -- that is to say -- everyone knows that--  
  

Luthien: [caustic]  
    
\--that Dad wanted Beren dead. I know. So did he.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Then . . . why . . . . ?  
  

Luthien: [slow emphasis]  
    
Because that's the kind of person he is. Things beginning to make more sense now?  
  

Ambassador:  
    
No. Less, rather, I'm afraid.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I'm not entirely used to this changed state yet.  
  

Luthien: [snorts]  
    
Give me a break. I've been dead less time than you have, and I'm not making a fuss about it.  
  

Namo:  
    
Yes, but you're Melian's daughter. Your divine side doesn't require a material presence, so it doesn't trouble you the way it would most people. --Such as your husband.  
  
[she rolls her eyes, while the Doriathrin Lord twitches at that last word "husband."]  


  



	19. Scene III.x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE III.x**

  
  
       
[Elsewhere: a wide tapestried hallway with pillars down the length of it, lit by silver-white light from discreet sconces.]  
  
[Two ghostly figures are duelling down it, with speed and agility impossible for mere mortals, neither giving any quarter, -- but neither managing to get any hits in, either. When one of the fighters -- female -- seems close to gaining the upper hand, her opponent manages to block her, darts behind a pillar, and from the other side flings a short spear. The swordswoman (who ought to be played by Carrie Ann Moss of Matrix fame) deflects it with her blade, catches it in her left hand and throws it back at him -- he raises his hand and it vanishes. She puts a hand on her hip and jeers at him:]  
  
Hah! I told you you couldn't keep yourself from cheating. If you'd come to Aman you'd have learned some honor there, instead of how to shoot from the safety of the trees, Dark-elf.  
  
[He moves out -- Gabriel Byrne might be cast in this part -- and they circle each other, watching for an opening]  
  

Eol:  
    
Oh yes, that famous Noldor honor. Which somehow doesn't stop you from killing unarmed kinsfolk.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
As if you have any ground to stand on!  
  

Eol: [bitterly]  
    
Marrying you was the biggest mistake I ever made. I should never have let you lure me from my peace and quiet!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
You should have stayed single? --I'd still be alive if it weren't for you, you wretch!  
  

Eol:  
    
So would I, if not for you, you seductress!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Assassin!  
  

Eol:  
    
Traitor!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Traitor yourself!  
  
[They clash again in a bout lasting several exchanges and fall back, frustrated, without lodging any hits]  
  

Eol:  
    
I should have known you'd be a thankless ingrate and a rebel -- just look at the rest of your family!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Stuck without using any secret weapons, hm? Sure you don't want to cheat now? Or are you going to try to down me with poisoned words this time?   
  
[Enraged, he lunges forward again and they go up and down the pillar footings like a small whirlwind until this gets boring again. Before either of them comes up with a new insult, the Captain saunters in and stands there watching with a contemptuous expression]  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you only fight women and children, old chap?  
  

Eol:  
    
Be off, Kinslayer!  
  

Captain: [shaking his head pityingly]  
    
Don't insult Her Highness -- it was an honest, if tragic, misunderstanding. --Unless you're talking to yourself . . . again.  
  
[Both of them shoot him dirty looks; Aredhel's glare turns to a smirk]  
  
Of course, if you're fighting the White Lady -- she really ought to be handicapped to make it fair, unless you plan to manifest a few illegal weapons along the way.  
  
[Eol snarls; Aredhel snickers]  
  
What, you've already cheated? And you've not even been nicked once in this match yet? Seems like you're backsliding, Master Smith -- you're supposed to be learning calm, and patience, and tranquility and such.  
  

Aredhel: [aside]  
    
\--What are you up to, I wonder?  
  

Eol:  
    
Don't you dare to lecture me, you insolent, immature, Noldor delinquent!  
  

Captain: [as if neither of them has spoken]  
  
    
And you with that amazing galvorn stuff, too -- I notice that your wife hasn't even bothered with a reinforced jerkin, so obviously in spite of your cheating she still outclasses you. I suppose you're used to sparring against employees scared you'd sack them if they actually showed you up? Or perhaps you always just ambushed your adversaries in the midst of peaceful counsels. Rather like my lord's cousin and the emissaries of Morgoth, both planning to get the jump on each other, eh?  
  
[Eol lunges at him without warning -- before he gets there the Captain has drawn his sword and blocked him, hard]  
  

Aredhel: [wickedly amused]  
    
Bad mistake.  
  
[Surprise assault foiled, Eol breaks off and starts stalking -- they circle, facing each other. Eol's stalk is more dramatic, but because the Captain is only pivoting, Eol's using a lot more energy and has more distance to cover when he makes his move]  
  

Captain: [musing tone]  
  
    
You do realize that I used to do this sort of thing for a living? Not just as a hobby. --Never used any of my own folk for target practice, though--  
  
[That does it -- Eol charges him with a furious yell and they set to in earnest. The difference between this and the earlier fight is not so much strength or even skill, but style -- earlier the couple were duelling, but the Captain fights combat-fashion: no dramatics, just the combination of rapid reflexes and brute force that one sees in predators fighting for survival, not for display. It includes tactics like stomping ankles and following a thrust with a driven shoulder or using the hilt as a bludgeon, for offense, and drop-slide-and-roll for defense, though there is a sort of horrible elegance to it nonetheless.]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Yes!  
  
[the Captain has feinted and used the mistaken block on Eol's part to get in a gladius-style short thrust up under two overlapping plates of his armor. As the Dark-elf falls he succeeds in landing a hard counter-stroke on the Captain's shoulder, but the latter has plainly counted on this and does not appear surprised.]  
  

Captain: [holding his collarbone]  
    
\--And once again, the combination of practice and training demonstrates its manifest superiority to beserk rage and dilettantism.  
  

Eol: [from the floor]  
    
Faugh. Make much of your blow and belittle mine. Typical invader arrogance.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but you'd be dead \-- if you weren't already dead -- and I wouldn't be -- if I weren't, again, already dead.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Are you all right, my lord?  
  

Captain: [matter-of-factly]  
    
Not yet.  
  
[to Eol, lecturing mode:]  
  
You should have taken that on your vambrace and ridden it out: trying not to get hurt at all will inevitably get you killed. If you're down to your last adversary, a clavicle's an acceptable exchange.  
  
[to Aredhel]  
  
\--But not, however, if you still have more to go.  
  

Aredhel: [cheerful exasperation]  
    
I know that. --And don't start on the "that's why you always wear armour, even if you're not planning on fighting and it's uncomfortable and others think it's paranoid, because being good isn't good enough" lecture. --So what are you up to? Simple boredom, or did someone finally get you to take that bet?  
  

Captain: [gingerly testing his arm]  
    
Which bet is that?  
  

Aredhel:  
    
The one that you could take my -- consort \-- without turning a hair. So to speak.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Damn! If I'd known about that, I could have made a nice haul.  
  

Eol: [sitting up slowly, hunched over]  
    
You're all mad, vying for non-existent trifles!  
  

Captain:  
    
Right, like destroying what you -- ahem -- love, makes any sense at all.  
  

Aredhel: [suspicious]  
    
If it wasn't that, then what was--  
  
[she breaks off and rolls her eyes as Nienna's Apprentice makes his appearance in the hallway and gives them all meaningful Looks]  
  

Apprentice: [patronizingly-superior tone]  
    
Lady Vaire sent me to discover what the disturbance was about and to make it stop. I ought to have guessed you'd be part of this.  
  

Captain:  
    
Upon my honor, sir, I--  
  

Apprentice:  
    
\--did not draw until drawn upon, I'm quite sure.  
  
[sighs]  
  
Don't you people have anything better to do than engage in senseless violence?  
  

Captain: [leadingly]  
    
Now then, now then -- I've been given to understand that you consider yourself no mean hand at swordplay, either.  
  

Apprentice: [challenging]  
    
And why do you say that?  
  

Captain:  
    
I . . . have my sources, and mean to keep them thus. --So it isn't true? You don't, in fact know more than hilt from point?  
  

Apprentice: [nettled]  
    
I didn't say that.  
  

Captain:  
    
I suppose it must be a guilty secret rather, not quite as bad as having done in your relatives, but with something of the same taint about it.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
What are you talking about?  
  

Captain:   
    
Though perhaps things have changed while we've been gone, though I confess it doesn't sound that way from the rumours I've heard.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Do you think it's funny to be annoying, or can you not help it? --Ah--  
  
[checks]  
  
Threnody, but that's what he's always asking me.  
  
[sighs]  
  

Captain:  
    
As a matter of fact, I can help it--  
  

Aredhel:  
    
\--he just thinks it's amusing to be cryptic and insolent. My cousin collects the strangest people.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't know the half of us. --I meant, young sir, that your kin must look quite askance on such a violent hobby, unless the Vanyar have changed far more in the years since the Rebellion than even we.  
  
[long pause]  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh. I see.  
  

Captain:  
    
So do you meet in secret to make weapons and train like we did? Or are they simply resigned to their unruly offspring and hope that by ignoring it you'll get bored of it and grow up?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm . . .  
  

Captain:  
    
I suppose you were just trying to show off, then, when you made all those careless remarks to the Princes' lads about being a fair hand at it. --That's how I know, by-the-by. That was a deliberate careless remark, intended to edify, not an actual accidental careless remark let slip. --You see how easy it is to mean to keep secrets and give them away all the same? At least to anyone who is paying close attention to the things you're saying -- or not saying.  
  

Aredhel: [shaking her head]  
    
This is why people want to see mincemeat made of you, you know.  
  

Captain:  
    
Because I'm right all the time?  
  

Eol: [who has gotten up at last, standing rather painfully and still holding his chest]  
    
Because you're an arrogant whelp of an interloper, lording it over your betters and elders.  
  

Captain:  
    
What, are you still hanging about where you're not wanted? Why don't you go and vent your ill-temper on the following of Feanor, who actually deserve it? Oh -- that's right, there are a lot of them and they'd probably go out of their way to hurt you, like kicking you in the face once you were down.  
  
[Eol spits towards him -- the Captain ignores him]  
  
\--Which I would  
never do because it's petty and trivial and lacking in nobility and besides that, it's stupid to give your enemy the chance of hamstringing you for such juvenile satisfaction. Well, stay around, then -- sooner or later milady's father will turn up and fillet you again, but far be it from me to deny you the satisfaction of being annoying.  
  
[the Dark-Elf draws himself up and sneers at them before stalking off]  
  

Eol:  
    
I'll be avenged upon the lot of you, I swear it!  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
\--Git.  
  

Aredhel: [sharply]  
    
That's my husband you're talking about.  
  

Captain:  
    
And you call him much worse than that.   
  

Aredhel:  
    
Yes, but he's my husband. When you insult him you call my judgment into question.  
  

Captain:  
    
? ? ?  
  
[while he is still speechless the Apprentice murmurs something like "Who would do such a thing?" causing Aredhel to whirl and flare at him:]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Shut up. You haven't any right to tell me what I ought to do or have done.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Daughter.  
  
[she turns around guiltily. The High King is there, looking grave and a bit disappointed; he could be played by Roger Rees of Nicholas Nickelby. With him is the Steward, appearing somewhere between mildly interested and almost bored.]  
  
What is all this turbulence that fills these Halls of grief and reconciliation? Ar-Feiniel, it is ill-becoming to berate the household, as well I have taught you.  
  
[impatiently she drops him a quick bow and one towards the Apprentice]  
  
Your heart is much troubled still, I perceive, from this dispute.  
  
[frowning at the Apprentice]  
  
Must I complain to your Master yet again regarding your lack of solemnity and dignity, then? I consider your internship here -- never yet having been interred -- to be a most improper experiment, and do not doubt that I shall say so again to the Lady.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- but -- I--  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah, Your Majesty--  
  
[he bows deeply]  
  
\--I must confess the fault in part is mine: we were baiting the young Elf, in truth, though it was but meant in humourous fashion. I merely wished to teach him the unwisdom of boasting, especially on a certain subject.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I wasn't boasting!  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Indeed? And what matter might that be, gentles?  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, the lad considers himself a master of the sword, one hears.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
You don't say.  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed, Your Majesty, one has heard this rumour as well -- though where and whence he has his training, one confesses one's self greatly curious. But since it's past testing, there seems little purpose in pursuing this . . . diversion.  
  
[he manages to look disapproving and amused at once]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
What do you mean, "past testing"--?  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
Surely one cannot think it's possible to put it to the proof? When all that have such skills in truth are ghosts, and held here, and so there's none to challenge in the world without, or to judge, that truly might make test of such a brag.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Are you so sure of that? --What about Lord Tavros?  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
I would never disrespect the Hunter or his might -- but neither he, nor any of his following, have spent such years in such bitter wars as we, matched against enemies that tried our skill but to try to better it, and to outmatch us withal in numbers, if not in main strength.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Hmph.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
If you could fight one of us, we'd be more inclined to believe your claims. Or at least the general nature of them, since you can't possibly be as good as you think you are. But obviously that isn't going to happen -- at least not anytime soon.  
  

Apprentice: [slyly]  
    
And why not?  
  

Captain: [snorting]  
    
You don't think it's possible, surely, to engage in affray -- us being dead and you being not?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You needn't make it sound as though -- discorporation -- were some mark of achievement. It is -- at least for you Noldor -- a sign of disgrace.  
  
[pause]  
  
Besides, are you so sure? I've watched you at your games, and I think I could manage to conjure up the form of a sword as well as any of you.  
  
[pause]  
  
Unless of course, you're afraid to try.  
  
[the Captain gives him a scornful look]  
  

Captain:  
    
Afraid? As a friend of mine from the Old Country would say -- give me a break. No untried recruit would stand a chance against me.  
  

Apprentice: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
Then let's put it to the test, shall we? Don't you chaps favour metaphysical experiments?  
  
[the Captain sighs, shaking his his head, half-smiling]  
  

Aredhel: [knowingly]  
    
Aha.  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
So how much have you got riding on this?  
  
[he only shakes his head, looking surprisingly serious]  
  

Captain:  
    
Battlefield rules, or this ritual combat nonsense?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
What do you mean, "battlefield rules"?  
  

Captain:  
    
Nothing one couldn't do in the flesh. No manifesting pits beneath your adversaries' feet, or boulders between, or previously-absent weapons, steeds, or abilities. A true contest of strength and skill according to one's respective limits, and no others \-- real life has no such "rules of combat."  
  

Apprentice: [petulantly]  
    
You talk to me as though I were a child--!  
  

Captain:  
    
Because you are one, by comparison.  
  
[the Apprentice hides a flicker of expression at this]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
So, shall we have the great and noble Fingolfin confirm the sameness of our equpment?  
  

Aredhel: [sharply]  
    
Are you mocking my father?  
  

Apprentice: [surprised]  
    
No. Why should I be? None of us has managed what he accomplished, to withstand and cripple the Enemy, let alone single-handed!  
  
[she looks suspicious; he asks, with another gracious nod to Fingolfin:]  
  
Shoudln't we have His Majesty determine the exactness of our swords?  
  

Captain:  
    
Why? That isn't how it would happen in the field. Work with what you're used to and comfortable with, and I'll the same. You don't think that an Orc-chief is going to set down his axe and take a sword because that's what you've got, do you? Or, better yet, measure and weigh both your blades before you set to?  
  
[the Apprentice smiles ironically and draws a sword out of thin air, flourishing it rather impressively before falling into a "guard" position]  
  
What, no exchange of names and titles and so forth?  
  

Apprentice: [innocent]  
    
What, do you do that in combat, then?  
  

Captain: [grinning]  
    
Well, no, --but I didn't expect you to--  
  
[without missing a beat or cuing his intent he lunges forward and comes within a few inches of ending the match right then and there -- except that the other with equal agility has sidestepped and brought up his blade in a parry]  
  
\--be--  
  
[clang]  
  
\--quite--  
  
[clang]  
  
\--so--  
  
[clang]  
  
\--good.  
  

Apprentice: [smugly]  
    
Flattery will get you--   
  
[he has to make a rather undignified duck to avoid unexpected decapitation and backs away, rattled]  
  

Captain: [stalking him down]  
    
\--a distracted adversary, lad--  
  
[he leaps at his oppponent with a lightning-strike attack. The Apprentice manages to deflect and riposte, catching him in the wrist just before the edge of his vambrace starts -- and backs off, with a pleased expression]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
A hit, to me.  
  

Captain: [grimacing]  
    
Only an idiot does that in a real fight.  
  
[he switches hands and moves in again, with a more cautious approach -- they circle and feint several times, before the Apprentice breaks first and closes, with a vigorous set-to in the classic 30's swashbuckler mode. With a particularly dextrous parry the Apprentice manages to disarm his opponent and the backstroke takes him hard across the leg halfway between knee and hip, bringing him down full length]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Hah!  
  
[the Captain rolls out of range and comes up to a sprawl, braced on his right elbow -- with a dagger in his left hand that leaves it almost before anyone has realized what he has. It should take the Apprentice squarely in the eye -- except that it dissolves into a trail of glowing embers that vanish before they hit the ground. The Apprentice backs off and puts up his sword, waiting for his opponent to retrieve his own weapon and resume the match. The Captain, however, does not get up, only raises his good hand for attention.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Your Majesty, gentles all -- I call you to witness. Unfair advantage of abilities has been used.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But you manifested "previously-absent weapons"!!!  
  

Captain:  
    
Not so. I've always carried bootknives. Hundreds of witnesses, many of them hostile, in here, if you won't take my word for it. Your lack of observation skills is not my fault.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--But turning them to harmless sparks is not something one ought to be able to do in the real world. Not even King Felagund could do that using the combined heritage of all three Kindreds. --Certainly not some young stay-at-home Vanyar twit who's never seen combat sorcery in action.  
  
[to the onlookers]  
  
\--Was he, or was he not cheating there?  
  

Steward: [offhand]  
    
Who can say? Perhaps he can do that Outside as well.  
  

Captain: [mock concern]  
    
Shh! You'll blow his cover.  
  
[the High King shakes his head, consideringly]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Oh, I very much doubt that's the case, regardless. If Morgoth had possessed the ability to obliterate weapons from a distance he'd surely have disarmed me before I managed to mark him. Clearly unfair advantage has been employed here.  
  

Apprentice: [starts to object further, then sighs resignedly and bows -- easily:]  
    
M'lord, I apologize for my action -- and the rashness of my assumption in presuming dishonorable behavior on your part, which led me into such error of judgment.  
  

Captain: [nodding]  
    
Apology accepted.  
  

Apprentice:   
    
Shall we to it again, sir?  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Certainly not.  
  
[the Apprentice looks at him, surprised]  
  
Your apology was nobly made. --The question of the penalty for cheating, however, is not yet settled.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Penalty?  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
But of course. It is well that you regret your actions, but redress must still be made. Otherwise your apology is empty breath and echo.  
  
[the Apprentice casts a worried glance around]  
  
I cannot of course compel you to endure the consequences of your actions -- only your own conscience, and honor, may do so.  
  
[that decides it]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Your Majesty, I would not have you consider me coward, or worse yet, unfair. What forfeit must I make for my transgression?  
  

Fingolfin: [to the Steward, in a manner of casual politeness]  
    
What say you, my lord? Over the yen my nephew entrusted many crucial matters of judment to your discretion -- surely you have some thought as to what would be both fitting and serve well as memorial against future temptations?  
  
[the Steward puts a musing forfinger to his lips, frowning in thought, then holds up his hand as though delivering a message]  
  

Steward:  
    
If the young -- Elf -- considers himself unworthily matched, then let him match himself against the greatest warrior of us all, and thus be satisfied in his honor even as the price of dishonor shall be paid. --If -- no less -- such exactment should meet with your Majesty's willing approbation.  
  
[Fingolfin raises an eyebrow]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
It does have a certain symmetry, I'll grant -- and I do find this enforced idleness wearying after a time.  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice: [rather desperately]  
    
Your Majesty, I am no Melkor.  
  

Captain: [aside]  
    
No, nor Sauron, neither.  
  
[the Apprentice shoots him a piqued glare before adding:]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
The -- the punishment could in no wise be commensurate with the offense -- whether I cheated or didn't. --Please.  
  
[pause]  

Fingolfin:  
    
Well then, if your taste for combat has worn cold, perhaps the gentler contest of the chess-table would be more to your liking?  
  

Steward: [offhand]  
    
I hear that it is wonderful practice for those who are in need of learning patience.  
  
[the Apprentice looks absolutely, and if possible, even more horrified at the prospect]  
  

Captain:  
    
Sire -- permission to make a suggestion?  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Granted, my lord.  
  

Captain:  
    
The King your nephew has an errand he has tasked me to undertake, the which shall doubtless require much in the way of walking -- would it not be appropriate to require him to fulfill that task, seeing as how he's temporarily incapacitated me?  
  

Steward:  
    
That has a certain justness in it, I confess.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
What say you, gentle sir? Is such a forfeit acceptable to your honor and your occupations?  
  

Apprentice: [a little ungraciously]  
    
Oh, I think I can fit it in.  
  
[he grimaces, shaking his head, and lets the blade vanish from his hand]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Of course, if it be too onerous a burden, I am most ready to give you a quick drubbing on the spot and we can get it over with.  
  
[he extends his arm, and the Steward hands him a swordbelt and scabbard. The High King draws the memory of Ringil -- and the Apprentice pales]  
  

Apprentice: [swallowing]  
    
Sire, your judgement is more than acceptable, and more than generous. I am quite glad to make such restitution to your nephew's servant.  
  

Captain:  
    
Good, then you can start by giving me a hand up.  
  
[he accepts the other's help -- the Apprentice's disgruntlement changes to concern when it becomes clear that he isn't faking. The Steward looks away with a tight expression while his friend struggles to stand and put away his sword.]  
  

Fingolfin: [to Aredhel]  
    
Well, child, now that this brief excitement has passed like all earthly things, perhaps you would be kind enough to spend a little while communing with your parent in his lonely exile and indulge him in the diversion of a quiet game of chess?  
  

Aredhel: [demurely]  
    
Pray excuse me, Father, but I am reminded by Lord Edrahil's words that I should practice my meditations and strive to attain tranquility and detatchment of spirit.  
  
[she bows and hastily vanishes -- the Apprentice rolls his eyes]  
  

Steward:  
    
Oh, deftly done.  
  

Captain:  
    
She is good, isn't she?  
  

Apprentice: [darkly]  
    
Too good for her own good. That one has -- an awful lot to learn.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
I would remind you that you are speaking of my daughter, young sir.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Why, so we were, Your Majesty. It is a shame my Master isn't here, so that she could join in this conversation with us.  
  
[Fingolfin's expression changes to annoyance]  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, come on -- don't dawdle about, your assignment's waiting.  
  
[the Apprentice gives him a Look]  
  

Fingolfin: [to the Steward]  
    
My lord, seeing that my own kin have abandoned me once again, might I for a little demand your gracious assistance in a brief round at the table?  
  

Steward:  
    
Your pardon, but I must request your indulgence for the present: my lord requires that I spend more time in attendance on him, and less in diversions, Your Majesty.  
  

Fingolfin: [reasonably]  
    
My nephew doesn't actually need you to do anything that he can't manage perfectly well by himself. This isn't Outside, nor does he have dominion over two thirds of these Halls and the troubles thereof. He can spare you for another match. --I understand that he wishes to embroil myself, if not my folk, in another scheme of his, is that not correct?  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward: [to the Captain]  
    
Would you--  
  

Captain: [nods]  
    
\--I'll make your apologies.  
  
[he leads the Apprentice down the hall away from the others, still limping]  
  

Apprentice: [remorseful]  
    
I hurt you.  
  
[the Captain shrugs]  
  
\--I'm sorry.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then you'd best put aside arms, and all thought of them. It comes with the territory. Get ready for it.  
  

Apprentice: [nettled]  
    
I'm not afraid of being injured.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then you're an idiot.  
  
[an expression of annoyance flickers over the Apprentice's face, quickly vanishing]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
"Surely one may regret the necessity for causing pain, even while not holding back from the deed?" -- Were those not your very words to my Master?  
  
[the Captain gives him a sidelong glance, says nothing]  
  
\--How did you know I -- am not entirely what I seem?  
  

Captain:  
    
I didn't -- until now.  
  
[this sinks in]  
  
His Majesty had made the conjecture first, of course, but we had no proof. Thank you for the confirmation.  
  

Apprentice: [disgusted]  
    
Which--? -- Finrod. Of course it would be he. --I am still sorry I hurt you, but I confess -- not quite as much.  
  

Captain: [cheerfully]  
    
At least I didn't have to fight the High King. That would not have been fun.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Why? I thought he was fond of your crowd.  
  

Captain:  
    
What's that got to do with it?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
. . .  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't think he'd go easier on me because I'm not part of House Feanor, do you? Aside from refraining from an extra twist once he'd nailed me -- it's not as though I'm some new recruit or beginning amateur. --No more than you are.  
  
[the Apprentice looks a bit sick]  
  
Good thing for you you made the right decision, eh?  
  

Apprentice:   
    
\--Wait -- why should you have to fight Fingolfin?  
  

Captain:  
    
Had to draw you in somehow -- I'd forgotten about Master Eol.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
This wasn't accidental at all, then?  
  

Captain:  
    
By your Lady, no! Of course not!  
  

Apprentice: [chagrinned]  
    
I was beginning to be fairly certain there was more to you than someone who just killed things.  
  

Captain:  
    
Still too slow, then. --Speaking of which, you want to let Arda do as much of the work for you as possible. Don't fight your weight when you turn -- use it. I know it looks impressive to jump around like that, but . . .  
  

Apprentice [interrupting]  
    
\--So what is this task your King has set you, which you've now arranged to pass on to me? Organizing a chorale society? Interviewing veterans of the Battle-under-Stars for his complete history of the War?  
  

Captain:  
    
To ensure your complete and unconstrained cooperation in the matter of securing inside information regarding the Powers' deliberations concerning Melian's daughter and the Lord of Dorthonion.   
  
[Nienna's Apprentice halts in shock]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You -- want me to spy on the councils of the gods for you?  
  

Captain:  
    
Not for me--  
  

Apprentice:  
    
For your king, then.  
  

Captain:  
    
No. For the sake of Beren and Luthien.  
  
[the Apprenice just stares at him]  
  
There is after all nothing  
dishonorable in it; you've been doing it already for your own curiosity as well as to assist, have you not? And you cannot think that my sovereign lord means any harm or mischief to either Aman or the Powers, can you? We merely require that you bring the infromation you have witnessed to King Finrod in timely fashion and full measure, without reserve or deception, and without such noncooperative responses as providing so much information that no useful timely assessment of it can be made.  
  
[with a narrow Look]  
  
In other words, don't report every fiddly little detail of "and then Lady Yavanna started drumming her fingers on the table again," unless for some reason you really think that's relevant and are ready to give reasons for it.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yavanna isn't there.  
  
[hastily]  
But I understand what you're getting at.  
  

Captain:  
    
And you'll do it?  
  

Apprentice: [dawning realization]  
    
You deliberately lost.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, I didn't lose. --Not yet. Will you pay your forfeit, then?  
  

Apprentice: [staring]  
    
You let me strike you down. Why?  
  

Captain:  
    
We needed some certain way to provoke you into cheating. Nothing so likely as the appearance of it, eh? But it had to look plausible, hence desperate enough.  
  
[the Apprentice looks both horrified and awed]  
  
Don't worry, everyone knows we're all stark staring mad.  
  

Apprentice: [slowly]  
    
I've thought that all along too -- but recently my Master said to me, "But what if they aren't?" I haven't been liking the answers to that one very much. --I'm liking them even less by the heartbeat.  
  
[acridly]  
  
That means you did cheat, though. Not technically perhaps, but in the deepest sense. It was all a setup, wasn't it?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, I didn't have anything to do with the Endless Whirlwind -- they did that all on their own, as usual. I merely had to locate them.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But the High King, and your friend, and the rest of it -- that was all planned?  
  

Captain: [grins]  
    
What, rooking you into it? Absolutely.  
  
[with an ironic but not sneering bow, he gestures for Nienna's Apprentice to keep walking with him]  


* * *

  
_[to be continued...]_  


  



	20. Scene III.ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.ix

  
  
       
  

    
[Elsewhere: the conference chamber.]  
  
[Luthien is standing in the middle of the circle, halfway turned in the middle of a bout of pacing around the hearth-bowl, holding out her arms to her interlocutors in an indignant gesture.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
. . . So now do you think, do you really think, I'm going to walk away from him after that? The Silmaril is meaningless. It's just complicating things in your minds. Forget about the Silmaril.  
  
[long silence. No one seems to know where to look. Finarfin is looking as close to a shade as is possible for a living Elf.]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Your Majesty, are you ill?  
  
[the King of the Noldor cannot answer at first]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
My Lady -- I am.  
  
[he closes his eyes, his right hand flat on the table, the left clenched.]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Would you like us to adjourn for a while, Sire?  
  
[pause. All are looking at Finarfin, or trying politely not to -- Luthien appears a bit guilty]  

Finarfin:  
    
This -- this matter is not news to thee, my Lady.  
  

Vaire: [compassionately]  
    
No, Your Majesty.  
  

Finarfin: [shaking his head at himself]  
    
But of course . . . of a certain, not.  
  
[looks down]  
  
I think I shall betake myself to walk but a whiles, gentles, if ye shall excuse mine absence. I'll return anon.  
  

Vaire:  
    
Don't trouble yourself about us, dear -- we'll manage quite adequately in your absence.  
  
[Finarfin rises, with a distracted acknowledgment of her words, and turns towards the arched door]  
  

Irmo:  
    
Shall I come with you? If Este were here . . . but she isn't, so . . .  
  

Finarfin: [a touch of sternness]  
    
I will walk alone, I thank you.  
  

Luthien: [worried]  
    
\--Will you be all right?  
  

Finarfin: [distantly]  
    
I misdoubt.  
  
[he walks out into the shadows, very straight-backed, head held high, as though on his way to the block]  


  



	21. Scene III.viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.viii

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Finrod goes back to his seat, picks up the harp, looks at it, smiles ironically and sets it down again, shaking his head. Despite his apparent nonchalance he's quite aware that everyone is watching to see what he will do, all along; what he does is beckon the Captain over to him, not urgently, but with a resolute air.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Sir?  
  

Finrod:  
    
I've been waiting for things to happen, and now they are, and happening too fast and variously for me to manage singly. I can't wait for my uncle to make up his mind about acting, and I need good intelligence to make intelligent decisions.  
  

Captain: [seriously]  
    
Of course. We don't want any more of the sort of systemic failures and oversights that helped land us here happening again.  
  
[Finrod gives him a Look]  
  
\--Why, Sire, surely if  
you can blame yourself for circumstances far past your control, you'll not begrudge me the same?  
  

Finrod: [deep sigh]  
    
Consider the point taken. What we need is inside access to the debates, from someone who's well-disposed to Beren, or at the least not hostile to us, and keen-witted enough to be able to sort out the meat from the shells, so to speak. Can you crack me this nut, then?  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah, this must be Edrahil's request.  
  
[Finrod gives him another Look]  
  
He said you'd have both a question and a request for me when he saved me from your dad's incipient harangue, and you already asked me what in the name of the Void was going on, then.  
  
[Finrod sighs]  
  
There's one individual that springs to mind immediately. I mean, it would be a little inappropriate to appeal to my Lady -- yet. --But. And then again -- but. It's that competitiveness that's going to be trouble.  
  
[he raises an eyebrow -- Finrod nods.]  
  

Finrod: [meaningfully]  
    
Yes. That's what I was thinking. The trouble is, I can't afford the traditional methods -- they take too long, for one -- and besides, those usually don't give the best results. I need full, free and proactive cooperation, not devious answers begrudgingly given, even if it's just for the joy of it and not real malice. I don't want to be worrying about whether I've phrased one wrong and wasted it, so that I hardly dare use the other two until it's too late.  
  

Captain:  
    
So. No riddles, no boardgames.  
  
[he frowns thoughtfully]  
  
Got it. I think I can manage this without actually having to fight His Majesty. And if not -- at least he doesn't have it in for me.  
  

Finrod: [wincing]  
    
Do I want to hear about this plan of yours?  
  

Captain:  
    
Probably not, Sir.  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Ought I regardless?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
I don't think you need to.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Good. Take as many people as you require.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, I think my backup's already there.   
  

Finrod:  
    
Of course. --Try to pry him loose from that damnéd game of my uncle's when you're finished.  
  

Captain:  
    
I don't know if I can promise that, Sire. Getting between chess sots and their board is--  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--See if you can inveigle my cousin into taking his place. Tell her you'll thrash her husband for her or something. --You did not hear me say that, by the by.  
  

Captain:  
    
Hear what, my lord?  
  

Finrod: [sighing]  
    
I should never have introduced either version of it to Eithel Sirion.  
  

Captain:  
    
If not you, someone else should have soon enough.  
  
[departing, over his shoulder:]  
  
You know she'd rather do it herself, though. --Actually, that gives me a better idea.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I await your results with equal parts eagerness and trepidation. Good luck.  
  
[as the Captain leaves Finrod whistles loudly and Huan comes to him, followed by a curious Beren.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Stay and look after Beren until I return. If there's any trouble of any sort, please come and fetch me immediately.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir, should you really be going off by yourself? I heard about all that, and I think they're right to be worried. How your wearing this--  
  
[reaches up and flicks at Finrod's hair and collar]  
  
\-- is as in-your-face as you can get to the Kinslayers without actually calling them that, and how they're fed up with you six ways from Couplesday already.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Didn't they tell you about the latest attempt, then?  
  

Beren:  
    
I know, but you can't do that with the walls -- or the floor -- any more because you promised, right? And even if they don't know that yet it'll be obvious when you don't.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
They put you up to this, didn't they?  
  

Beren:  
    
No, I just kept adding things up. Two and two and two is six, after all, Sir.  
  

Finrod: [wistful]  
    
Surely you wouldn't be addressing me so formally still, if I were one of your mortal kinsmen.  
  

Beren:  
    
You're changing the subject, Sir, and yes I would, if you were one of my senior cousins on Ma's side visiting which is how I can almost make it work by pretending, and I did call them "Sir" and "Ma'am," and if one of them was going to do something dumb like go hiking in an area they didn't know very well by themselves without a guide I did tell them that even if I was just a kid.  
  
[pause]  
  
I did it politely, like I did at first, though, I didn't tell them it was dumb -- but if that didn't work I would go ask Ma or Uncle Brego for help if they didn't listen on account of me being a kid.  
  
[Finrod just looks at him]  
  
Only there's no one I can go to at this point since you don't listen to them and I don't know your uncle and somehow I don't think you'd listen to him anyway. Or you'd listen but then you'd do it anyway. If I was really unscrupulous I would say something like how if you get beat up by a squad of bandits you won't be helping me and it will make it harder for you to do that, but that would be unfair.   
  
[Finrod sighs, looks away, and then tries very hard to persuade Beren he's overreacting]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren, please try to understand. Throughout the entirety of the Return I was obliged to be responsible and level-headed and mediate between all my hot-tempered, justly-or-unjustly-outraged, easily-offended kin and compatriots, and every other free People in Beleriand as well. That gets tiresome after almost half-a-millenium, you know. And I don't have to do it any more. I'm not the King of Nargothrond now.  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
I can see why you'd want to take risks and have some fun after being serious and in charge all that while, but if you won't consider us -- how we feel worrying about you and not being able to do anything to protect you -- then I will have to guilt you about it.  
  

Finrod: [jauntily]  
    
I don't need to move the walls, though -- the Powers don't bother preventing us from administering lessons in civility and prudence to each other, and I assure you I am quite as much the equal of any here with sword or lance as I am with any form of power.  
  
[he gestures, for an instant brandishing a dangerous-looking blade, before letting it vanish]  
  

Beren: [unmoved]  
    
And there's still just one of you. At least take Huan.  
  

Huan:  
    
[agreeable tail-wagging]  
  
[Finrod looks around, then leans closer and says very quietly]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren, I don't need to move the walls to deal with them. I could make them think they were trapped behind walls, if I chose. I could make them believe far worse. If they truly threaten me, they will wish they had turned back at Araman, if not for remorse then for the sake of fear, since the end result is that they're here in my company.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
You'll get in trouble.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Very likely. It won't matter because they'd never dare risk my anger again.  
  
[pause]  
  
Do you believe me?  
  

Beren:  
    
They said that people can't lie here -- that what you think is what you say here.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I can't lie to you anyway. --Only deceive you with silence.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir -- everyone has their secrets. And yeah, that was not a good one to keep from me, and I think you know that now, so I don't see that you need to bring it up every other minute any more.  
  

Finrod: [mild]  
    
Sharply put.  
  

Beren: [not giving ground]  
    
Yep.  
  

Finrod: [rueful]  
    
\--"Sharp as salt," isn't that how the saying goes? Such a diet I get of it from my counsellors -- not even you will give me honeyed words. I am blessed far beyond my deserts to be so served!  
  
[earnestly]  
  
I will be careful, and avoid trouble. I promise.  
  
[he starts to leave again -- Beren calls after him:]  
  

Beren:  
    
What'll you do to them, if they're not?  
  

Finrod: [grimly]  
    
You don't want to know.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--You wouldn't.  
  

Finrod: [edged smile]  
    
You know me better than that.  
  
[he runs a hand through his braids]  
  
I do wear this guise as a reminder that I haven't forgotten Alqualonde. I will forgive them -- when they repent. Until then -- let them be wary, or else find themselves sorry regardless.  
  
[pause]  
  
Are you regretting your claiming of kinship as rashness yet?  
  

Beren:  
    
I know about avenging family -- and guilt.  
  
[he closes the distance between them]  
  

Finrod: [blurting it out]  
    
Please don't kneel to me again--  
  

Beren:  
    
Wasn't going to.  
  
[he grabs Finrod's arm and pulls him to lean down]  
  
Be careful, Ingold.  
  
[with that he slaps him firmly on the shoulder and strolls back to Huan, while Finrod struggles to stop grinning as he leaves]  



	22. Scene III.vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE III.vi**

  
  
  
    
[The Hall]  
  
[Beren is about to start a new game, when one of the royal Guard comes over and interrupts them:]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Hey, what's this about someone actually beating Barahirion at mortal chess? That's a joke, right?  
  

Beren: [nodding towards the Sindarin Ranger]  
    
Nope, he took the field last match.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Then it has to be some kind of weird anomaly. Nobody beats you at kingstone.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
It wasn't a random occurrence. I've got a strategy.  
  

Second Guard: [tapping Beren on the shoulder]  
    
Here -- let me play this one, will you? I want to see this new set of tactics.  
  

Beren: [obligingly]  
    
Okay.  
  
[he moves over and lets the other take his place. To the Warrior, who is next to him, having been watching the last game:]  
  
It sure is a lot easier when you actually have something in front of you, instead of just trying to keep it all straight in your head.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Indeed.  
  

Beren: [wry smile]  
    
Even if it isn't real.  
  

Warrior: [shrugs]  
    
It seems real enough, for the present, and that's all that matters.  
  

Beren:  
    
You want your coat back?   
  
[he reaches up to work off the other's cape, which he has still kept]  
  

Warrior:  
    
Not necessary--  
  
[there is a flicker over his appearance as when Luthien first arrived, and he is wearing his again]  
  

Beren: [blinking]  
    
I'm not going to get used to that. Even if nothing should surprise me after I was -- you'd think I'd get over all these mortal reactions.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
So your weapons seem just as real as this--  
  
[rubbing at the hem of the cloak]  
  
\--even when they hit, I take it?  
  

Warrior: [wincing]  
    
Oh, very much yes. Especially then.  
  

Beren:  
    
So, how does it work? Or when you get -- killed, here? --Commander wasn't joking about cutting people's hands off for hitting the King, was he?  
  
[the cavalry officer shakes his head]  
  
But it doesn't -- stay that way, does it?  
  

Warrior:  
    
It stays until you let yourself disperse, and reappear again. That was the problem at first, why we had to make so many rules and do so many practices before we could try the Sudden Flame -- people couldn't grasp that it wasn't fair to just reappear and start fighting again after getting run through or decapitated. Or losing something. But finally everyone admitted that it really was more fun to do it the real way.  
  

Beren:  
    
So you don't have to -- vanish, then, if you've been hit?  
  

Warrior:  
    
No. That's why people who've actually been injured and recovered in Beleriand have a huge advantage over the chaps who just got killed outright. We know what it feels like, and how to keep going. Once you leave the field, though, you're off until the battle's over.  
  

Beren:  
    
So how . . . ?  
  

Warrior:  
    
It's a matter of remembering how it should go, not what just happened to you. Just the same as this--  
  
[he reaches over and pins the brooch on Beren's copy of his cape correctly]  
  

Beren: [not offended]  
    
Thanks.  
  

Warrior:  
    
You know . . . I should tend to think that it would be possible for you as well. It -- it isn't as if you were--  
  
[grimacing involuntarily]  
  
\--born that way--   
  
[he very lightly brushes Beren's wrist -- the other pulls back, gripping his stump tightly with his left hand.]  
  

Beren:  
    
No.  
  
[less harsh-sounding]  
  
I wouldn't begin to know how.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Know what? I wasn't paying attention.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Restore himself, so that he doesn't have to do without his hand.  
  

Fourth Guard: [interested and hopeful]  
    
Could you?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
  
    
If I . . . let myself go . . . I might not be able to come back. Or stay here.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
But why not? It isn't hard--  
  

Beren: [slowly]  
    
I'm not like you. If I were able to do that -- I wouldn't be human any more.  
  
[pause]  
  
We're not supposed to be having new bodies like you. What happens to us in this world happens, and that's just the way it is.  
  
[he gets to his feet -- his companions give him anxious looks]  
  

Warrior: [urgent]  
    
Please don't be thrown by all this -- we're just talking. I didn't mean to distress you.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm not.  
  

Fourth Guard: [very worried]  
    
You're not upset again? Really?  
  

Beren: [patting him on the shoulder]  
    
No. --Really.  
  
[he goes over to Finrod's side and sits down next to him, a little away from where the Captain and the Steward are watching the light effects and passing the flask back and forth at intervals.  
  

Captain: [pointing to the flames]  
    
Will we get in trouble, do you think, if we were to put these over all the fountains in the place?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes.  
  

Steward:  
    
I could have told you that.  
  

Finrod: [to Beren]  
    
Did you want to talk about anything?  
  

Beren: [noncommittal nod]  
    
I want to ask you something -- if it's all right.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Ask away, --kinsman.  
  

Beren: [smiling]  
    
All right. So . . . are there any more crazy relatives I have to watch out for?  
  
[Finrod frowns in thought]  
  
They told me about the High King's long-lost daughter being here, and how I probably don't have to worry about Feanor, but how your cousin the Princess isn't too keen on hearing anything bad about Celegorm or even Curufin.  
  

Finrod: [mildly]  
    
That sounds like a fairly comprehensive briefing.  
  
[to his officers, a touch sternly]  
  
\--Why, then, were my younger siblings omitted from the list?  
  

Captain: [unfazed]  
    
Sorry, Sir. We've just taken to ignoring those two and their rudeness for so long that we forgot all about them--  
  
[Finrod winces]  
  
\--but nobody's used to the idea of Ar-Feiniel being here, I'm afraid.  
  

Steward:  
    
The fact that all were aware of the Princes' presence here -- and none of the White Lady's -- no doubt contributed to the taking-for-granted of the former.  
  

Captain: [rueful]  
    
Being slapped hard enough to knock one into a pillar does tend to work against any taking-for-granted, too.  
  

Finrod: [aside]  
    
She did regret it after, though -- particularly because you retaliated before you'd the chance to see who it was.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--I once asked my sister how she -- and her Lady -- could put up with Cousin Aredhel. The answer wasn't very flattering.  
  

Beren: [a bit agog]  
    
And--?  
  

Captain: [looking up at the ceiling]  
    
She said that the Lady was like a hot-tempered horse who didn't hold a grudge, great fun when she was in a good mood, and her bad ones didn't last long, even if she was easily vexed.  
  
[to Finrod:]  
  
Sorry about that, Sire.  
  

Finrod: [dryly]  
    
You could say that my family was full of thieves and murderers and I wouldn't be able to gainsay you.  
  

Beren:  
    
What about the High King? Is he going to want me -- well, that is -- um, going to be mad at me for -- everything?  
  

Finrod:  
    
My uncle isn't likely to, no. He was troubled, yes, but he looks at fate much more reasonably than certain other persons of our mutual acquaintance. He's been rather downcast and melancholy and doesn't get about much anyway, though I try to draw him out of himself as much as possible. The breaking of the Leaguer -- and the news I had to give him about the consequences of it so far -- combined with the Kinslaying have rather depressed him, I'm afraid.  
  
[pause]  
\--He hates being hailed as a legendary hero, as well.  
  

Beren: [digging right back]  
    
They said he was kind of threatened by you getting all kinds of things going here, too.  
  

Finrod: [a bit snide]  
    
It doesn't seem as though they've left much for me to say.  
  

Steward: [sighing]  
    
My lord -- you're beginning to sound like me.  
  

Finrod:  
    
. . .  
  
[Beren & the Captain hide their expressions, and the nearest artists on the joint mural project look suspiciously blank.]  
  

Beren:  
    
It's okay, Sir, we won't hold it against you.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It's all or nothing, isn't it? Either you treat me like a demi-god, or you give me as much grief as these two.  
  

Beren:  
    
Um, do you mean, as much grief as I give them, or as much as they give you?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes.  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't think I can deny that, right?  
  
[he glances at the Elf-lords]  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
It would be an interesting experiment, to discover if a mortal can knowingly speak falsehood in the Halls.  
  

Captain:  
    
But he already did, when he said he didn't have any idea what I was talking about.  
  

Steward:  
    
No, a statement contrary to fact made with full knowledge that all present know that it is counter to the truth is not an untruth but merely a jest.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, then, this would be the same thing--  
  
[as they are debating this issue--]  
  

Beren: [his expression darkening]  
    
They did have a point, though.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Who did, concerning what?  
  

Beren:  
    
That I might as well have killed myself before getting you involved.  
  
[Finrod's hand tightens on the harp frame]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I should have let them get soaked.  
  

Beren:  
    
'Cause it's not like anything I ever did made a real difference -- for the better, at least. Not even my War. I'm not even worth making an example of.  
  

Finrod: [exasperated sigh]  
    
You're not still glooming about that, are you? --You don't think he was telling the truth, surely?  
  
[Beren shrugs]  
  
Beren, let me impart, if you'll allow, a brief word of advice: anyone who likes going by the aftername of "The Terrible" is not likely to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to publicly execute you because I don't want anyone to know how much trouble you've managed to cause and if you simply disappear my enemies will be less likely to make a martyr of you." --Wouldn't you agree, eh?  
  

Captain: [putting his head down on his knees in despair]  
    
Oh dear Lady, they're at it again! What is it this time? I don't recognize this one.  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
I know about this. It's all right.  
  

Captain:  
    
How come I don't?  
  

Steward:  
    
Because you have such a hard time staying still and not speaking, if you're not out-of-doors stalking something. It was very difficult for him to talk about the End. And even after we knew about the rescue -- it was still nothing either of us wished to recollect. --Better, perhaps, that he's willing to speak of it now to The Beoring.   
  
[anxiously]  
  
\--I wasn't trying to keep things from you in some sort of petty triumph.  
  

Captain:  
    
I didn't think that, actually.  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
Do you want to play chess?  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Do you want to try scaling the rockface the lads have built?  
  
[the Steward snorts at that. Still looking at the water:]  
  
You did cheat, didn't you?  
  
[silence]  
  
Why?  
  

Steward: [distantly]  
    
I remember a foolish young Herald who refused to listen to a mere field officer telling him that the Enemy didn't honor the rules of battle that all civilized peoples in Middle-earth obeyed, saying instead, "They can't shoot me -- haven't you ever heard of diplomatic immunity?"  
  

Captain:  
    
He only said that once, as I recall.  
  

Steward:  
    
Being shot at rather tends to make it a hard position to maintain.  
  

Captain:  
    
He did a fair job at not panicking and getting the mission out of range without any further casualties, as I also seem to recall, if only in bits and pieces.  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
I couldn't let your last words to me be: "Told you, you fool--"  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought you apologized quite enough to last out forever and then some, four hundred thirty-odd years ago. That's a long time to still be worrying about it.  
  
[pause]  
  
And -- I notice you still haven't answered the question -- Why? Surely it wasn't still guilt over one stupid mistake and a misplaced instance of verbal superiority. I'd really hate to have your conscience, if that's the case.  
  

Steward:  
    
Surely if I were going to concede any such thing, I should have done it long since.  
  

Captain: [ignoring this]  
    
The how of it's easy -- obviously you simply foresaw which character I'd choose and named the next tengwa. But I'm not sure of the rationale, since it wouldn't make any difference in the end -- and if anyone had any optimistic hope that Orodreth might discover some courage somewhere and mount a rescue before the end, it wouldn't under any circumstances have been you.  
  

Steward:  
    
Why do you insist on knowing this now?  
  

Captain: [completely serious]  
    
Because things are about to change, as they haven't before -- I can sense it without benefit of Foresight, like the coming of rain from beyond the hills, or the scent of snow in the air -- and I think for the better, though you'll say that's to be expected -- and I don't know that I'll be able to ask you again, Outside, under broad starlight. --Why did you let me go before you?  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
It was almost as hard on you as upon him--  
  
[nodding towards Beren]  
  
\--you could never bear being under a roof so long, even when the fortress was ours, and the freedom of it likewise. . . . Besides, it was not all unselfishness: I did not See then this meeting, and so I had a little longer while his company for it.  
  
[pause]  
  
I also knew which words he would choose.  
  
[the Captain glances briefly towards Finrod, and then looks back at the water/fire in silence]  
  
What is it you are thinking?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Wondering what caused the Song to bless me from the beginning of Time with a friend willing to live in my place. I could never have earned that or deserved it.  
  

Steward: [very dry]  
    
\--And yet you still won't give me the grace of a chess-match.  
  

Captain: [easily]  
    
There's that problem of staying still in one place indoors for long stretches of time at a go.  
  

Steward:  
    
You're willing to sit still for long periods of time and watch, and offer astute criticisms of the plays, which would indicate that you don't find it quite so boring as all that, would it not?  
  

Captain: [grinning]  
    
\--Yes, but that's fun. It drives everyone insane when I do that, in such different ways, and I get to see so many unguarded reactions. And if I were actually playing I couldn't pay attention to everyone else and keep close eye on the bystanders.  
  

Steward: [sighs]  
    
If you've not noticed, we're not in Nargothrond keeping track of the movements of Feanorian partisans and possible supporters any longer.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, we're in Mandos, keeping track of the movements of Feanorian partisans, hadn't you realized that yet?  
  
[this gets him a small but well-aimed splash from the spill-pool]  
  

Beren: [extremely troubled]  
    
\--But what I still don't know, is -- did any of it mean anything? Not just our War -- The War, and Luthien saving me, and us getting the jewel, and Huan killing Carcaroth -- since we just lost anyway. So what if we hurt Morgoth doing it? He just comes back and stomps us again, harder this time, kills more people, and things are worse after for resisting! What good are the inspiring songs, if nobody's left to sing them?  
  
[he looks at Finrod unhappily but with hope that somehow the King will be able to make it all right, while Finrod meets his stare quite soberly.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I'm working on that problem. I still don't have enough information for a complete answer, I'm sorry to have to tell you.  
  
[he startles, looking up as though he has heard something that no one else has yet perceived, and turns to Beren with a stricken expression.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Change of plan again. Just follow orders -- no questions, no interpretation -- please.  
  

Beren: [seeing how serious he is]  
    
Okay. --What orders?  
  

Finrod: [visibly coming undone, for him]  
    
Stay out of sight -- stay behind Huan, don't -- don't get up, don't -- just -- lie low. Keep-- keep playing chess, act normal, whatever happens -- I -- I'm not sure how I could disguise you as we are and -- just -- please \-- obey.  
  

Beren:  
    
What is it? --Who \-- is it?  
  

Finrod:  
    
My father.  
  

Beren:  
    
? ! ?  
  
[Finrod reaches out and grips his shoulder in attempted reassurance]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Don't panic. Everything will be all right.  
  

Beren:  
    
No it won't.  
  

Finrod: [sadly agreeing]  
    
Probably not. --But leave it all to me. Please.  
  
[Beren nods, and getting up goes quickly over to the further side of the pool where the games are ongoing, hastily explaining to a resulting general consternation and gestures of alarm equal to his news of Amarie, while the two chief counsellors answer their unofficial liege lord's summons for a hasty briefing and consultation.]  
  
[By the time a Messenger of the Halls' resident staff enters, looking far more vague and brilliant than anyone we have yet seen (rather like a personification of the Northern Lights), and ushering in Finarfin, King of the Noldor in Aman (he might be played by Peter Davison, in All Creatures Great And Small, Dr. Who days) -- everyone has settled down into very preoccupied harmless pursuits again, and Beren is completely screened behind giant Hound and friends. Finrod does not leave his nook beside the falls, doing an excellent imitation of someone completely oblivious, and the Captain has taken point, as shall be seen in a moment, at the closest edge of the spill-pool towards the door, leaning on his elbow and ostensibly taking it quite easy.]  
  

Messenger:  
    
If it please you wait a moment, while I admit your Majesty's companion -- I'm afraid we're very short of people available right now. --Not entirely coincidentally, I've heard.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I shall wait, then, gentle spirit.  
  
[the Messenger vanishes. Finarfin looks around with a controlled awe and restrained apprehensions -- and as perception adjusts he sees the ghostly grouping, and his face changes from wonder to dismay to equally-controlled anger -- the last especially as Finrod continues to disregard him. After a brief hesitation he walks slowly over towards the waterfall, and stops to look down at the Captain with a particularly disgusted expression. The Captain gets up and bows with a pleasant smile.]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--Thou.  
  

Captain: [tone matching his smile]  
    
Good day, my lord -- meaning day in the most general sense, for we haven't any way of telling the time here.  
  
[Finarfin glares at him]  
  

Finarfin: [bluntly]  
    
Thy former post I have given to another -- nor shalt thou have it again, when thou dost depart these halls.  
  

Captain: [unfazed]  
    
Of course not -- I wouldn't expect you to take it from my replacement and give it to a rebel. Who's chief huntsman now?  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I did award it unto thy sister.  
  

Captain: [genuine cheerfulness]  
    
Well, that's good -- keeping it in the family, what? At least the job's in competent hands.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I'll not have thee hanging about the place like wasp to fallen fruit, seeking for undeserved bounty.  
  

Captain:  
    
I beg your pardon, my lord?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, is't not the very trouble, that thou dost not? --I mean thou shalt have no welcome within my doors, nor admittance within my gates, nor any admit thee within the walls of mine own house. Thou hast chosen thine own way in the world: do thou make it, then.  
  
[this sinks in]  
  

Captain:  
    
And what of my kin?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Do they choose to see thee, let arrangements be made -- but not upon the lands of my holding, nor upon the hours of their employ; an they'll the hours of their idleness squander on thy ingratitude, let them do so elsewise and in other venue.  
  
[silence]  
  
What wouldst thou say, sir?  
  
[the Captain is clearly hurt and troubled by this proclamation]  
  

Captain:  
    
That you are within your power, and have every lawful right to bar whomsoever you wish from your property.  
  

Finarfin: [baiting him]  
    
Thou dost not say I am unjust, then, else cruel?  
  

Captain: [shortly]  
    
Freedom answers all complaints, my lord.  
  
[before this can escalate further the Steward comes over in a preemptory way and addresses his colleague equally abruptly]  
  

Steward:  
    
Go attend upon our sovereign lord: he shall have question and request for you. --At once.  
  
[the Captain snaps to attention and bows before leaving with the same alacrity; the Steward gives Finarfin a cool half-bow, as between near-equals, and turns to go without speaking -- but Finarfin calls him back.]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Enedrion.  
  

Steward: [wary]  
    
Sir.  
  
[watchful pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I encountered thy father at court not long since.  
  

Steward: [politely formal]  
    
Indeed?  
  
[pause -- when it is apparent Finarfin is not going to be more forthcoming:]  
  
\--And how fares Lord Enedir?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Uncertain as to whom he should most direct his wrath -- thyself, myself, or mine eldest son.  
  
[pause]  
  
This is nothing new, we often speak of our children who have lost them.  
  
[longer pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed.  
  
[uncomfortable silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Is there any message, that thou'dst have me bear unto thy parents?  
  

Steward: [diffident]  
    
I should not wish to put any burden upon my lord's father.  
  

Finarfin: [iron]  
    
Young sir, were I not willing, I should not have asked. --What message wouldst thou give them?  
  

Steward: [resigned]  
    
Then, if you will, -- convey to my family my condolences upon their loss.  
  

Finarfin: [startled]  
    
Art mad, or dost thou jest?  
  

Steward:  
    
Neither, sir, or so I do believe.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Condolences? What reply, thinkst thou, thy father'll make to that?  
  

Steward: [shrugs]  
    
I will not speak untruth. My heraldic office forbids it, even if my conscience were not sufficiently strong, to say there's aught that I regret, or would do other, when it is not so -- and yet to say as much were a far crueller thing, I think, than nothing at all. Moreover -- would not any conciliatory phrase be manifestly not of my making? At least they'll have no doubt this comes of me.  
  
[Finarfin sighs]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--Indeed. --Who else should answer with such insolence in such courteous form?  
  

Steward: [tired]  
    
It is not insolence -- though no doubt they'll see it so as well.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And I must bear the brunt of it.   
  

Steward:  
    
If you will recollect, my lord, that follows but upon your insistence. I wished no such trouble -- for you -- or them.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And sparest not to mind me of't.  
  

Steward:  
    
Not oft -- I shall say it but this once, in fairness.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
To whom? Thyself or myself?  
  

Steward:  
    
Why, to whom does justice belong, my lord?  
  

Finarfin: [dry chuckle]  
    
\--Thy wits, perhaps, --but not thy wit. As edged as ever, I do perceive.  
  

Steward: [nodding]   
    
The extremes of ice and fire set a keen temper.  
  

Finarfin: [as one stating a fact]  
    
Thou hast not forgiven Araman.  
  

Steward: [deliberate emphasis]  
    
Said I so, my lord?  
  
[brief silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Dost deny thou dost accept me not as king?  
  

Steward:  
    
Are we in Tirion?  
  
[looks around exaggeratedly]  
We are not. Till then -- I have a lord already.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou kennst he doth lay claim to no such title now?  
  

Steward: [nodding]  
    
We allow him to maintain that fiction, the more so since all know full well it is just that.  
  

Finarfin: [startled again]  
    
Thou dost allow\--?!  
  
[Finrod comes up to them, and with a polite but brief nod to his father sets a hand on the Steward's shoulder.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Edrahil. Would you be so good as to see if my gentle kinsfolk are done with their chess-game yet? Do not let my uncle draw you into another round.  
  

Steward:  
    
Of course, your Majesty.  
  
[bows to Finarfin]  
  
I rest my case, my lord. [he goes away into the shadows. Finarfin gives his son the raised eyebrow]  
  

Finrod: [coolly]  
    
A rescue seemed in order. Again.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And of whom, pray?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Whichever most needed it. --One ought not begin an endeavor which one has not the will to finish.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye . . . As, for example, --to wed.  
  
[touché]  

Finrod: [folding his arms]  
    
So. --Why have you come here? I assure you I have not nor shall not change my mind, and this cannot do either of us any good.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And art thou the heavens' center, that all must turn about thee? It is not on thy behalf that I am come.  
  

Finrod: [bowing his head slightly]  
    
My mistake.  
  

Finarfin: [shaking his head]  
    
Such presumption sovereignty hath bred in thee, since thou didst wrest from me full half our House and alliegiance thereof. And yet . . . it seemeth that hence all kings must come at last.  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
Here I am but one among many bound here by our folly. My time as lord beneath the Sun is ended with my days in Middle-earth, and never shall I reign again, for good or evil. --You need not fear that I shall usurp your authority again.  
  
[Finarfin looks away, tight-lipped, as though trying to bite back some really caustic retort. Shrewdly:]  
  
\--If you've hope of getting some affirmation from Grandfather, I'm afraid you've come in vain. He will neither see nor speak with any of us. Not even your brothers.  
  
[Finarfin stares at him -- this has hit home in turn. Before he can recover, another pair of newcomers enters: the Assistant of the divine Smith we met previously, and a woman whose dark, plain and practical clothes contrast strikingly with her flaming hair. (Zoe Caldwell, Medea, might represent her.) Her posture expresses extreme unease and apprehension, and she looks around without any pretense of being unimpressed, pulling her cloak around her as if chilled. Aule's Assistant bows to her and vanishes, which does not seem to surprise her in the least.]  
  

Nerdanel: [to Finarfin]  
    
\--Brother.  
  
[she crosses quickly and embraces him, with a quick kiss on either cheek, and they clasp hands tightly, letting go with reluctance like worried relatives in a hospital ward.]  
  
Thy mother is much troubled over all this ado, I confess.  
  

Finarfin: [smiling despite the stress]  
    
Didst assure her, then, by thy coming, to give me wisest counsels?  
  

Nerdanel: [managing a brief smile]  
    
I did.  
  
[she gives a very brief, anxious glance towards Finrod -- it's clear from her manner that she would rather pretend that he is not there, if he'd be civilized enough to allow it]  
  
She tasked me to restrain thy more impetuous urges, and thee to give me heart.  
  
[Finarfin pats her arm in gesture of reassurance]  
  

Finrod: [bowing very politely]  
    
Aunt 'Danel.  
  

Nerdanel. [sighing]  
    
Nephew.  
  
[pause]  
  
\--'Twould be indiscreet, so I am given to know, to enquire of thee the news I'd have most willingly.  
  

Finrod: [without resentment]  
    
When last I saw them, or had news of them, their stars were in the ascendant, or at the least maintaining above the tide of War.  
  

Nerdanel: [sharply]  
    
All of them, sayest thou?  
  

Finrod:  
    
All that I have seen.  
  
[gently]  
  
I have not yet seen any of them here. --Though that does not mean as much as it might: I haven't seen their father, either, though some few others have of your former household.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thou seest too much. --E'en as thou dost deny it.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I am truly sorry to have no better comfort to offer.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thou dost speak as comfort might be given, that's no more to be had, saving the past be undone. --Nor shall that be. Shatter the alabaster, then mend it as thou canst -- still it doth remain cracked and withal flawed for ever and aye.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Then one might do better to carve another, and make the work over anew.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
And that new-fashioned one is not the first, nor shalt ever be the same.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [meaningfully]  
    
It might be better.  
  

Nerdanel: [dismissive]  
    
Thou and thy mad follies. Is't not enough to leave Valinor atilt with thy departing, that must unbalance more upon thy coming home? Must shake Taniquetil with this heresy of thine, and set all Valmar's tongues to ringing e'en as their bells, as the clamor on the hill of Tun' doth blow stormwise through the White Tree's leaves, for the tale of thy mortal Doom?  
  
[Finrod looks both intensely embarrassed and unshakably stubborn]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Of course I could be wrong.  
  
[this sounds like formal politeness]  
  

Nerdanel: [coolly]  
    
Well, thou'lt learn the truth of't for thyself in little while, shalt thou not? When thou hast thy flesh again, must tell us all, of whether this second sculpting be equal to the first.  
  
[nonplused, he can think of nothing to say to that -- while he is still silenced Finarfin rallies]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
When shalt rejoin us, son? Thy mother cannot fathom wherefore thou dost abide here, when thy rooms stand empty in Tirion for thy reclaiming.  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
That's up to Amarie, Father. There's no way I can avoid running into her -- or friends of hers -- Outside and out-of-doors, and I'm not going to come home and skulk around the house. You've already got enough problems as it is, without the neighbors deluging you with sympathy for another insane relative.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Mad or otherwise, we would yet have thee to home again.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I'm sorry.  
  
[somewhat hesitant]  
  
Would you please tell Mother for me--  
  

Finarfin: [cutting him off]  
    
Thy mother shalt yet hear no apology of thine, save thou dost give it her thyself, and in the flesh.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [conversationally]  
    
You know, I'm not the only one in the family who can "outstubborn stubborn."  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Indeed, far other -- I find it most amusing, that Earwen doth aver it cometh of my parentage, this obduracy and headstrong will of our offspring.  
  

Finrod: [same offhand, and patently-false, tone]  
    
Oh, I've met Mother's relatives overseas. We haven't an inch of vantage on them.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
So I am adviséd. Thou didst ask wherefore I am come hither. 'Tis thus: Lord Namo has requested that I might lend my authority as chief of our folk to convince the daughter of her uncle Elwe -- with whom I believe thou art in some small wise acquainted -- to see reason and to release withal her Secondborn spouse -- whose acquaintance I believe thou also hast -- from his mortal toils within this world, speaking haply more in tune with her own mind and nature that are akin to our own, than the great Powers, that are stranger to her -- and that have eke known both the joys of Aman, and--  
  
[nodding sympathetically to Nerdanel]  
  
\--the sorrows of wedlock and husband's love that cools upon longsome time.  
  
[Aule's Assistant manifests again and joins them, ignoring Finrod completely]  
  

Aule's Assistant: [very deferential to the King of the Noldor and Mahtan's daughter]  
    
\--Gentles, if you'd please to come . . .  
  

Finrod: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
So they expect that you and Aunt 'Danel will be able to talk Luthien into staying here alone in Aman.  
  
[snorts]  
  

Finarfin: [dry]  
    
Indeed. --I cannot begin to fathom why.  
  
[with this parting shot he follows the waiting messenger and his sister-in-law, as Finrod winces again.]  


  



	23. Scene III.vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE III.vii

  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Conference chamber]  
  
[Luthien is leaning against one of the columns, her arms folded, frowning, while the Powers look gloomily at her or at the light-dish; the Ambassador, apparently having given up, is wandering slowly along the circumference looking at the scenes of Doriath while the argument goes on.]  
  

Aule: [gesturing for emphasis]  
    
You keep saying that we are not listening to you, but you don't seem to be aware that you yourself are not aware of what we are telling you. Clearly you've already made up your mind to ignore everything that my colleagues, and I, have to say.  
  

Luthien:  
    
That's because it's irrelevant. Some situations are not negotiable.  
  
[the Ambassador gives her a startled look -- deja-vu]  
  
Everything about Beren being unworthy of me is simply wrong. So that's irrelevant.  
  

Namo: [patiently]  
    
No one has said that, Luthien. You're projecting your arguments with your parents on this situation.  
  

Luthien: [pointing to her father's counsellor]  
    
He did.  
  

Namo: [dispassionate]  
    
Correction. None of us has said that. --Or that you don't really love him, or that he doesn't really love you. Or that he hasn't done heroic service in the cause of Arda, or that he isn't real, or any of the other things you keep on insisting we have. What we are saying is simply the truth: you can't keep him here indefinitely discorporate. It isn't fair to him to deny him the Gift of Men.  
  

Orome: [speaking up finally, still scowling darkly]   
    
We want to help you both.  
  

Luthien: [fretfully]  
    
I just want to go home. --With Beren.  
  

Namo:  
    
And then what? Do we do this all over again in fifty or sixty years? He isn't made for this.   
  
[Luthien bursts into tears, turning to hide her face against the pillar; Vaire gives her husband a reproachful look]  
  

Vaire: [getting up]  
    
That wasn't a very sensitive thing to say, darling.  
  

Namo:  
    
The truth usually isn't.  
  

Vaire:  
    
I know, but still--  
  
[she goes over to where Irmo is already trying to comfort her]  
  

Irmo:  
    
Child, child, please don't cry --  
  

Luthien: [through her teeth]  
    
I want to go home.  
  

Vaire: [hugging her]  
    
But this is your home. You were meant to come here, and be safe, that's why Tav went to find your people in the first place. If you'd been born here you'd never have had all these troubles.  
  

Orome: [ironic aside]  
    
\--Other troubles, but not these troubles.  
  

Luthien: [pulling away, sniffling]  
    
But if my father had come back with everyone else, then he wouldn't have met my mother, because she was already in Middle-earth then, and so I wouldn't have been born. Here or anywhere else. --Or I'd have been someone else. So there wouldn't be a Luthien for you to talk to.  
  

Ambassador: [resigned]  
    
It's just like arguing with the King her father. Neither one of them knows how to stop.  
  

Aule: [snorting]  
    
\--If this is what Melian puts up with on a daily basis, I'm surprised she was born at all.  
  

Irmo:  
    
Este and I would be so happy to have you come live with us. And for your own sake, not just because we loved your mother so much: the Gardens would be made inexpressibly more delightful for your presence--  
  

Luthien: [raising her voice]  
    
I am not a collectible!!! --Do I look like a garden statue, I ask?!  
  
[stunned silence -- into which Aule's Assistant and escorted company arrive, all three with postures indicative of wary reluctance]  
  

Luthien: [not quite so loudly]  
    
I hope you're not more "old friends of my mother's."  
  

Nerdanel: [wry]  
    
That would be most difficult, forasmuch as I never met thy mother. I am Nerdanel, of Lord Aule's Following, and presently attached to Queen Indis her household -- though most known for another familial connection, I confess.  
  

Luthien: [narrowing her eyes]  
    
You're Feanor's wife, right?  
  
[pause]  
  
I have to say, you didn't do a very good job raising your children.  
  
[collective cringe -- Nerdanel sighs, and Finarfin looks over at the Lord of the Halls.]  
  

Namo: [before he can say anything]  
    
Yes, it's been like this all along.  
  

Aule: [cynical smile]  
    
Have a chair, welcome to the party.  
  
[he gestures toward the vacant seats]  
  
It's the most excitement there's been since we launched the Sun -- you wouldn't want to miss any of it, now?  
  

Finarfin: [warily]  
    
As I do recall, my Lord -- much of that ado was was born from lack of certainty as to the durance of the vessel and risks therewith.  
  

Aule:  
    
This isn't too different, as you'll find. Waiting for something to blow up, crash, burn or otherwise wreak havoc--  
  
[to Orome]  
  
I'm almost willing to concede that Tulkas has the right idea -- I could use a drink right now myself.  



	24. Scene IV.ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.ii

  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[Luthien who has again taken the floor, stands paused in mid gesture, tearful, distraught, and indomitably stubborn.]  
  

Nerdanel: [amazed]  
    
He gave up a Silmaril for thee? Child, never let him go!  
  
[Luthien stares at her, wary, not expecting anyone to be on her side any more, and thinking this has to be mockery -- the others present exchange dismayed looks: this is not working well at all.]  


  



	25. Act IV, Scene IV.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.i**

  
  
  

Gower:  
    
\--Truth, bereft of mask and veil,  
doth not ever show most fair; to eyes  
deceivéd, or by darkness or disguise  
rare, when concealments doth fail  
the unhid that which is well may seem  
as must be, would be, but troubling dream--  
  
[The Hall]  
  
[Finarfin enters and leans heavily against the arch of the door, covering his face with his hands. Beren notices and gets up from the game quickly without saying anything, before any of the others can ask him why, and hurries over to him -- two of the Ten rise and follow him at a cautious distance]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir…don't blame yourself, it really doesn't help--  
  
[Finarfin turns, startled, and sees him, just as Beren is about to try to take him by shoulder]  
  
Oh! I thought! -- I mistook you for him \-- I don't see very well here--  
  
[the Noldor Elf stares at him, at first bewildered, then taking in the differences, and making the deductive leap]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--Thou? -- it is -- needs must be--  
  
[Beren drops instantly to one knee, bowing his head]  
  

Beren: [stammering worse]  
    
My lord -- I--  
  

Finarfin: [tightly]  
    
So thou also art of the party that refuses to acknowledge, and yet proffers respect -- and mockery -- in one.  
  
[Beren looks up, confused]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry?  
  
[Finarfin recognizes his complete ignorance of the situation]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
No matter. I comprehend  
it better now -- to my bitterest regret.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm sorry, Sir, but -- I don't understand.  
  

Finarfin: [as if talking to himself as much as Beren]  
    
When word came that my eldest sibling was slain, it did come so close upon all the other ills of the time, that it seemed but part of the same, and fitting end to such meteoric journey. And when our middle brother perished, and my sons were slain in that great War of theirs, the horror of it and the grief was made a little less impossible to bear, for the glory of Fingolfin's deed, and the great valour of their defense -- they to stand by their adopted people, him \-- to strike at the Dark King himself and wound him with his own hand no less, though but an Elf, as though he might have been a lesser Power, and the gods themselves did him honour for his deed, that weighed against the wrongs of his working.  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
And then it came but a short whiles after, the news of mine eldest's fall, or that which I believed to be the whole and sum of it, and it seemed but pitiable and grotesque by compare, to be taken and slain but by a lesser Power, and in confusion and stealth, as a prisoner, not in open battle nor for his own name's sake -- a foolish end to a path of folly. --Thou dost look froward at my words.  
  

Beren: [terse]  
    
I would have died if not for him.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And yet thou art dead nonetheless, and what in end achieved? One year or one yen, what is either set against my son's life?  
  
[Beren says nothing]  
  
Thou wert with him for the whiles.  
  

Beren: [in a whisper]  
    
Yes, my lord.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy lady -- Stand up and let me see thee plain.  
  
[Beren obeys -- Finarfin shakes his head]  
  
Thy lady \--  
  
[he breaks off again]  
  
\--Where is my son, since by thy words I guess he is not here?  
  

Beren:  
    
No idea, sir.  
  

Finarfin: [aside]  
    
I would both converse with him, and would not ken the least what word should say to him.  
  
[to Beren:]  
  
\--Thy lady spake at no small length concerning his ordeal, and theirs, and thine.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Tinuviel -- found us. It wasn't easy for her.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--Dost say she overshoots, and thus doth miss the mark of truth?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Probably not.  
  
[awkward silence -- into which a snatch of a rather inappropriate mortal song and laughter is heard from the vicinity of the fountain:  
". . . all over the town--  
Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown--  
Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree…"]  
  

Finarfin: [knowingly]  
    
And hence this dull and gloomsome place doth seem small burden -- mad though that seemeth to all else -- after what hath passed, to them.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Us.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou wouldst still claim place with my son?  
  

Beren:  
    
Would or wouldn't, doesn't matter. We were there.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And hence -- ye \-- will not forsake him. That much now I do comprehend.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
That such things be done -- be thought of \--! I had not dreamt -- that his death should be of such a fashion as to make that which transpired at the Havens seem nigh civilized, nay, --glorious\--  
  
[his lip curls at the word]  
  
\--never that it was not quick, nor of the least dignified…  
  

Beren: [most definitely not conciliatory tone]  
    
Why did you think it was? Because things like that just don't happen to good folks? --Or people you know? You think there's some kind of rule that no one you care about can get killed and eaten by monsters? --Or because you'd rather not think about those kind of things?  
  
[Finarfin clenches his hand, giving Beren a ferocious glare -- Beren gives it right back to him.]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye.  
  
[breathing hard]  
  
And to my lasting shame -- I had in my grief yet some satisfaction, that being flouted and set down by him in sight of all our people, I should be proven right in end, and have some vindication, in the fulfillment of the words of Doom.  
  
[his control breaks and he breaks down for a moment, leaning back against the pillar, sobbing, before pulling himself together a little and wiping his eyes on his hand. Beren's expression changes to reluctant sympathy.]  
  
\--How couldst mistake me for him? Is flesh so light a thing, that mattereth not to thee?  
  

Beren: [very different tone again]  
    
Because what I see -- is mostly light, from a distance. Close to -- yeah. And you -- have a shadow.  
  
[Finarfin wipes his eyes again, forcibly getting control over his emotions]  
  
Sir -- would you care to -- that fountain, it's real, not just an illusion, you -- you could wash up, have a drink there -- if you wanted--  
  

Finarfin: [changing the subject]  
    
How is it that we are comprehensible to one another? For I think your people would not have the same speech as ours.  
  

Beren: [struggling]  
    
Uh -- because of thoughts? Partly? Because we did speak Elvish, only it wasn't the way you speak it here. Only some of the words were close. That's what he told me.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thoughts?  
  

Beren: [giving up]  
    
The King would be able to explain it better.  
  

Finarfin: [coolly]  
    
Which king? Four kings of the Eldar are in this place.  
  

Beren:  
    
I meant -- your son, Sir.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I have four sons, three of whom are here.  
  

Beren: [desperately]  
    
\--Finrod, my lord.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou dost babble like to an infant scarce past walking.  
  

Beren: [glum]  
    
I'm not always this bad at it. --Sometimes worse.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
How old art thou?  
  

Beren:  
    
Somewhere going on thirty. Ah, years -- the ones with four seasons, not the ones that are twelve-twelvemonths -- I don't know how long I've been dead now -- or does that even count…?  
  
[winces]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And yet thou'dst think to counsel my eldest child, whose years thou hast not one twenty-fourth part yet seen -- wherefore?  
  

Beren:  
    
Because he's my friend.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou deemst self worthy to name thyself friend to my son?  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't -- but he does. And if he calls me that, how can I not call him the same back? Wouldn't make sense.  
  
[pause. Finarfin just looks at him, bleakly]  
  
Are -- are you sure -- you wouldn't like to -- the water, over there?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Such a multitude is more than my spirit can bear at this hour.  
  

Beren: [heartfelt]  
    
I understand.  
  
[looks away -- sudden inspiration]  
The little hill over there, -- that's real, and we didn't make it, a goddess did -- if you wanted some privacy -- the roses are getting a little out of control, but that's only on the one side--  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And dost thou own this place, to deal as thou wert host here, and never guest uninvited?  
  

Beren:  
    
She offered us -- Tinuviel and me -- the use of it -- Nessa, it was -- so I'm sure it's all right if I offered you my place -- unless you know she would mind you doing that for some other reason--  
  
[he fumbles to a stop while Finarfin just looks at him again. A longish pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I shall do that, then, and sit upon the grass, and think -- upon the deaths of kings…  
  

Beren: [hesitant]  
    
Sir -- what did you mean, four kings? I only know -- there's Finrod, and the High King, his uncle, -- uh, your brother -- I'm sorry about that -- and… Oh. Your father.  
  
[brief pause]  
  
That's still three.  
  

Finarfin: [precisely]  
    
In the outside world, among the living, the three tribes of the Eldar also hath each their king. There is Ingwe, who is lord over the Vanyar, and High King of us all in holy Valmar. There is Olwe, that is -- thy -- wife's \-- uncle, and ruleth over the Teleri in Alqualonde. And of the Noldor, the headship hath fallen by default upon -- myself.  
  
[Beren drops to one knee again.]  
  

Beren:  
    
Your Majesty.  
  

Finarfin: [tired]  
    
Do not mock me, Aftercomer.  
  

Beren: [getting more and more tongue-tied]  
    
S--Sire, why -- would I mock you? I -- never got -- to go to court, and learn the -- the ways of the High Elven court, but -- I was too young, and the Battle, and the invasion and you don't want to hear about that -- I always -- we always, it wasn't like it was me, on my own -- honored you.  
  

Finarfin: [acerbic]  
    
Before we met, at the least.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
\--You understand about that.  
  
[Finarfin nods, reluctantly]  
  
It meant a tremendous deal to Da that the ring had belonged to you as well as the Ki-- Finrod. You were one of the good guys in our stories. We were proud to be fighting for the House of Finarfin.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--My ring? Stories?  
  

Beren: [desperately]  
    
Your son gave my father his ring. To us. Our House. --And the stories. But those were earlier. A lot.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy thought is as the several links of a broken chain, mortal -- both disordered and impaired it seemeth.  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm sorry, sir.  
  
[winces]  
  
\--Your Majesty.  

Finarfin:  
    
Peace.  
  
[grimaces. Aside:]  
What doth he see in thee, or in thy folk?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
I don't know.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I spake not to thee.  
  

Beren:  
    
It's hard to hide the truth here, Sir. --I know you'd like to hit me -- and I understand why.  
  

Finarfin: [abruptly]  
    
Thou didst speak of my signet. Hast it, then?  
  
[Beren reflexively moves as if to take it off, remembers, laughs bitterly and holds up his hand for the other's inspection. Finarfin in turn reflexively reaches forward to touch it, but their hands pass through each other as though neither had substance. The Elf-king stifles a sob.]  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
You loved him best…  
  

Finarfin: [shaking his head]  
    
I ever strove -- not to remake my own father's error -- and in the Song I truly believe that I neither set one child above the rest, nor each at rivalry to another…  
  
[looking off in a reverie]  
  
…yet did their mother from the first declare…that surely I gave equal of strength and spirit to his forging, no less than she…for ever our thought and heart were as one, so that he might finish whate'er I did begin, of hand's work or of speech, and his joy was ever my healing, when the strife of my elders was a weariness and a chill upon my soul…and never were we wroth with one another…saving once only. --And now the hand I did close in mine to teach the shaping stroke of burin, and laughed to see grown to match mine own, is cold as the clay that devours it -- but no colder than his soul to me -- aye, as the winds off Helcaraxe…and that is hardest hurt of all, and all of my doing, and naught of thine.  
  

Beren: [softly]  
    
Sir, he spoke to me of that -- to regret that parting -- and to claim part of the responsibility--  
  
[Finarfin turns a quelling stare on him and he is silent]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Not merely to counsel, but  
to console, thou didst endeavor -- because he is thy friend.  
  
[Beren nods, mutely]  
  
\--Would there were one that might serve me in such wise--!  
  
[he walks off towards the hill; Beren rises and turns back towards the falls. His two watchers move to meet him and put their arms over his shoulders as all three return to the group.]  
  

Warrior: [anxious]  
    
What was that about?  
  

Beren:  
    
He didn't know. Or -- he didn't understand.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [fiercely]  
    
\--He can't.  
  

Beren: [regretful]  
    
I think he knows that now…  
  
[Returning to the chess-game, he still gives a worried look over to where Finarfin is seated with his chin resting on his forearms, staring into the middle distance.]  



	26. Scene IV.iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.iii

  
  
    
[Elsewhere: a wide columned space of indeterminate size, very dim, fading into shadows on all sides. Finrod is standing alone (apparently) in the middle of it, in a listening attitude]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I know this is an imposition, and I'm awfully sorry. But I do need help, and you do have leverage that I haven't. If you'll just let me explain, and then decide whether or not it's worth your while, I will be deeply in your debt…because I feel quite certain that once you hear the story, you'll be only too willing to lend your assistance.  
  
[pause]  
  
And I know I'm being impossibly presumptuous, but at least I'm honest about it. And you can always send me away afterwards if I'm wrong.  
  
[silence -- the darkness starts to acquire a texture in front of him, with a very elegant, rather ornate but quite delicate carven archway in the middle of a ghostly wall, slowly becoming visible. (In the old days such an illusion would be worked with scrims and lighting, and mirrors, instead of computer effects.) Finrod bows.]  
  
Thank you, cousin.  
  
[he enters the gate which stands invitingly open, and which closes behind him, the entryway fading into the greyness once again.]  



	27. Scene IV.iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  


**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.iv**

  
  
    
[The Hall]  
  
[Beside the fountain-basin: Beren and the Youngest Ranger are back to playing tafl; the rest of the Ten are scattered around apparently randomly, passing the flask and talking, or working on the waterfall -- but a trained eye would recognize how easily they could pull into a defensive formation should the need arise. At the moment the frieze behind is getting a high-relief sculpture of trees as a screen in front of the geometric Noldorin-style bas-relief surround, and the two artists working on the project are arguing hotly about it.]  
  

Soldier: [defensive]  
    
But hemlocks are bilateral. This is a completely accurate depiction of their schema.  
  

Ranger:  
    
But it doesn't look real!  
  
[The Captain enters, Nienna's Apprentice in tow. The latter does a startled double-take on seeing what has happened to the fountain -- the Captain looks critically at the progress on it.]  
  

Soldier:  
    
I know! But why?  
  

Third Guard: [breaking in]  
    
Look -- you're not randomizing and that's why they look like a line of cirth instead of a forest. You've got to vary the groupings by factors of--  
  

Captain: [to the chessplayers]  
    
\--What are those three going on about?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
I think they're arguing about aesthetics and symmetry in nature. It could be they're just talking about trees. "Algorithms" never used to be part of my everyday vocabulary.   
  

Captain: [innocent]  
    
And it is now?  
  
[they both grin]   
  
So, nothing I need to worry about or get involved in.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
No, sir. --Not yet at least.  
  

Captain: [to the arguing Elves, offhand]  
    
Lady Vaire's going to have conniptions when she sees all that, you know.  
  

Ranger:  
    
We'll put it all back the way it was after, sir.  
  

Apprentice: [still piqued]  
    
\--"Conniptions?" What is a conniption?  
  

Ranger:  
    
Conniptions \-- it's always plural.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
What sort of a word is that?  
  

Captain:  
    
You'll have to ask Beren -- it's one of his.  
  

Beren:  
    
It's Taliska, sir. It means, um, getting really annoyed and losing your temper. With a lot of noise and so forth.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Then why not just say so?  
  

Beren:  
    
Dunno. "Conniptions" is shorter?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Not that much shorter.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
I guess we just liked the way it sounded. It's one of those old words that everybody kept using. And it's not just ordinary getting-angry. It's, you know, when you…say, find the little kids playing sword fights with your best skinning knives because sparks come off real metal and you don't whether to yell at them for doing something so incredibly dumb because it's dangerous or because there's three hours worth of sharpening to do now to get all the nicks out.  
  

Apprentice: [frowning]  
    
I…suppose I can see what you're getting at.  
  

Beren:  
    
Or like when you tell your brother and your younger cousin that the adults don't care if they jump on the smokehouse roof because you're angry at them for telling about the hole in the big kettle and all the hams fall down and all of you get screamed at because you should have known better than to believe him any more than he shouldn't have said it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah.  
  

Captain:  
    
Or, for example, Morgoth, after discovering that someone's nicked a Silmaril off his crown.   
  

Beren: [straight-faced]  
    
No, none of my elders ever set the hearth-guard on us, not even when we accidentally ruined some of the laundry testing to see if wet fabric really was fireproof.  
  

Captain:  
    
Perhaps more like Feanor discovering that someone had invited his siblings to dinner and hadn't bothered this time to give him the opportunity to turn the invitation down? --Though I only heard about that at second-hand, so I can't vouchsafe that it would quite fit the definition.  
  

Apprentice: [dry]  
    
I do begin to get the picture.  
  
[to Huan]  
  
\--What are you about?  
  
[Huan only grins and wags his tail -- it's perfectly obvious that he's in dog Elysium, lying down having lots of different people to pet him]  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, run along -- go find out something useful and report back here when you have.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You're enjoying this, aren't you?  
  

Captain: [smiling]  
    
Clever, aren't you?  
  
[shaking his head, Nienna's Apprentice goes off. The Captain lounges on the rocks next to where they have set up their game, watching.]  
  

Ranger:  
    
What happened to Lord Edrahil, sir?  
  

Captain:  
    
We lost him to chess again.  
  
[his subordinates shake their heads knowingly. Beren gives them all questioning looks]  
  
Fingolfin's an absolute fiend for the game and not too many are good enough to give him a decent match. Those who are tend to be rather…wary of being conscripted, these days. Princess Aredhel saw an opening and bolted, and in the interest of winning the High King to our side he stepped into the gap. --Not that it would take much prompting in any case. Since he's also too proud to lose quickly and get it over with, it could be quite a while.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [gesturing to the tafl setup]  
    
Speaking of chess -- do you want to play, sir?  
  

Captain:  
    
And see how fast he can break his record for trouncing me? No, I'll just enjoy the calm until the next crisis hits. Who's winning?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
We are. Beren's won four, and I've won four.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
See, I would have said "nobody." But you're right, we're both winning. It's funny -- same situation, two totally different ways of looking at it.  
  

Captain: [bland]  
    
You know, that's practically profound.  
  

Beren:  
    
I thought you liked kingstone, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, as a diversion it's all right. But it isn't my preferred diversion, if others are to be had. Like watching ice form, for one.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. --That boring, huh?  
  

Captain:  
    
Ice crystals are quite fascinating, the way they sheet over a pond.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but you usually watch stuff like that when you're waiting for something to actually happen.  
  
[without looking up from the board]  
  
Run into House Feanor on your mission, sir?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah -- no.  
  

Beren:  
    
You didn't ask me why I asked that.  
  
[silence]  
  
You're favoring your arm, too. What happened?  
  

Captain:  
    
. . .  
  

Beren:  
    
All right, that means that the reason for it was something about me.  
  
[everyone now watching with interest -- the Captain looks away, with an expression of self-directed exasperation]  
  
But it wasn't the Feanorians.  
Huh. --Was it that guy who came in with you?  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren--  
  

Beren:  
    
'Cause Huan likes him. He was the one who brought Amarie in here. And I think he's the same one who brought us over here from wherever I was at the beginning, only I'm not sure because everything was really hazy then. If it was him, there was something besides, or else I don't think Huan would still be happy to see him, if he was trying to hurt you.  
  
[pause]  
  
I don't think he's really an Elf, either.  
  
[those around him share looks]  
  

Captain:  
    
Why would you think that, now?  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Doesn't look the same as Amarie. Something about the -- not color, but something like that -- of the light. Like the difference between a real piece of rock-crystal and a piece of glass, kind of. I remember once there was a case my uncle had to try, where there was a foreign merchant who sold a brooch to somebody in Drun that turned out not to be real -- it was real, but not what it was supposed to be, see -- So anyway the barbarian guy claimed he'd been cheated in turn and gave back the money, but my uncle kept the brooch to keep him honest after and paid him for the price of the tin and the glass, which wasn't much. He showed it to us after they got back, and the funny thing was, it looked the same -- I mean, it looked right, you'd say, oh, that's gold and gems, all right -- until my aunt put hers, that came from here--  
  
[he stops for a second, and closes his eyes]  
  
\--came from Nargothrond and was actually made of gold and crystal, not just a thin -- wash? right? -- over the cheap metal. And then when you had the one that was solid and the fake one side by side, you'd never think that they were the same thing at all. Only this is more like the difference between a little bit of light coming from a coal, and a little bit of light coming from a candle in a lamp that's mostly closed. One of them still has more light \-- only you can't see it.  
  
[long silence -- the Ten look meaningfully at each other.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Very interesting. --As it so happens, you're right. --But he'd be much obliged if you didn't mention it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay.  
  
[he moves a piece on the board and takes two pawns]  
  
Your move.  
  
[looking up]  
  
Is that good enough?  
  
[the Captain nods]  
  

Captain:  
    
No more oaths. I trust you.  
  

Beren:  
    
Thank you.  
  
[pause]  
  
I don't know what you guys think you're doing, let alone whether it will work , but -- thank you.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
I wonder how it is that you can tell? None of us could be quite sure.  
  
[Beren shrugs again -- the Captain laughs not unkindly]  
  

Captain:  
    
Perhaps any Man's ghost might, or perhaps…only one who's touched a Silmaril, or is married to an Elf, or has passed through Melian's labyrinth, or been healed by a deity's child, or…so many possibilities, and no way at all to put them to the proof. Normal rules don't seem to apply to Beren any more than to Huan here.  
  
[Huan, hearing his name, looks over and thumps his tail]  
  
That reminds me--  
  
[frowning]  
  
You kept saying something odd, but I didn't want to interrupt you any more -- you kept on saying, or seeming to say, that Huan said things. Now I presumed I was misunderstanding -- surely you meant that Luthien was with Huan when she berated you -- not that the two of them took you to task for running away.  
  

Beren:  
    
That's right.  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren.  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh, that's right, Huan was yelling at me too.  
  
[realizing that this is getting him some very strange looks]  
  
What? He can talk.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Well, to animals, of course. We've seen him speak with other kelvar, not just the pack, but -- speak? Like us?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah.  
  
[at their expressions]  
  
I'm not joking. Or crazy. He doesn't do it very often. But you can ask Tinuviel, she was there too.  
  
[everyone looks at Huan, who grins happily and whines for more attention, waving a forepaw where he's lying down]  
  

Warrior: [smiling uncertainly, not sure if it's a joke, still]  
    
So…what does he say?  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Different things. He told her what to do in Nargothrond, and he told me to stop being an unthinking idiot and what we had to do to get into Angband that might work. And…  
  
[he gets quieter, looking into Huan's eyes]  
  
…he…told me good-bye, that this was the fate he'd Foreseen us meeting maybe, and he was sorry he hadn't been able to save me, and that we'd meet again, and not to be afraid…and he called me brother.  
  
[very subdued, they look at the Hound, and at Beren, and at each other.]  
  

Captain: [very softly]  
    
You said he sent the Eagles to you.  
  
[Beren nods]  
  
I think…perhaps friend Huan is lord of far more than dogs.   
  
[into the awed, no longer doubting silence, Huan makes a short, sharp, "don't stare at me!" bark and elbows closer until he can jam his head under the Captain's arm for a hug before stretching up into a half-crouch -- then grabbing at the nearest Guard's trailing scabbard and worrying it playfully like a stick]  
  

Fourth Guard: [dragged half-sideways]  
    
Hey!  
  
[Beren slaps at Huan's forepaw, making him settle down]  
  

Beren:  
    
Definitely more -- but still Lord of Dogs.  
  
[the Captain laughs, and then suddenly freezes, shaking his head]  
  

Captain: [carefully not looking over at Finarfin on the hill]  
    
And now I win the distraction prize. I do hope you lot are aware that his Majesty's father is in the vicinity?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
It's all right, sir -- they already had it out, and Beren told him off. We didn't even have to intervene.  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
For the last time -- I didn't tell him off.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, I doubt it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Doubt what?  
  

Captain:  
    
That that was the last time. So what is it? --Damn. I really don't need this right now.  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't think he's going to hassle you again, Sir. I guess they only got the really short version in Tirion. He assumed it was different from the way it really happened and then Tinuviel told about it in more detail and he realized it was different from what he had imagined had happened to us and he's really upset.  
  
[pause]  
  
He might come apologize, given how much he and Finrod have in common, unless maybe he'd think it would be too rude to bring it up to you.  
  
[several people glance over at Finarfin in the distance]  
  

Captain: [not sounding at all enthusiastic]  
    
Perhaps I should go over and talk to him, then…  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
He doesn't really want to talk to anybody right now, except maybe Finrod, but he doesn't really want to talk to him either…okay, I guess I did kind of tell him off. --But I wasn't as tough on him as he was on himself.  
  

Captain: [running his hands over his face]  
    
No, I don't imagine that you were. Oh Lady -- more complications for Himself to deal with. What'll be next, I wonder?  
  

First Guard: [looking over at the empty doorway]  
    
Ware!  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir, you know you're never supposed to ask that.  
  
[enter two Noldor shades, elegantly outfitted and armed -- James Purefoy (Mansfield Park, A Knight's Tale) and Ben Browder (as "Captain Larraq," Farscape) might portray them -- wearing expressions both sardonic and disdainful. Next to them, Finrod's people suddenly look a lot scruffier and more motley; Huan straightens up a bit and whines, but does not get up or make any other sound.]  
  

Captain: [snorting]  
    
It would be him. And he's learned to bring a second. Damn, damn, damn. Beren--  
  

Beren:  
    
\--I know, stay out of the way.  
  

Captain:  
    
Actually, I was going to say, use your discretion. That's the former Lord Seneschal of Formenos, who learned the hard way that ambushing an ambush of Balrogs is a bad idea, and making fun of King Finrod an even worse one -- and his counterpart from Aglon, who didn't make it to Nargothrond during the Bragollach. They're likely to say absolutely anything and do whatever they think they can get away with. I'm planning on letting someone else deal with any necessary violence myself right now.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sounds like a good plan to me.  
  
[the Feanorian lords stop a short ways off (ie, a safe distance) and address each other:]  
  

Lord Seneschal of Formenos: [loudly]  
    
What an impossible place this is -- if it weren't enough that the facilities should be dismal and the amenities nonexistent, the service too must be a bad joke on top of it all! Things were much better managed under my control at Formenos.  
  

Lord Warden of Aglon:  
    
Even in the barbarous circumstances of the Old Country we did better than this. --Of course, the company at Aglon was far preferable as well.  
  

Formenos:  
    
That…would not be difficult to accomplish, I think. Saving yourself, of course.  
  

Aglon: [graciously]  
    
Likewise. --Stars above, what have we here…?  
  
[their attempts to suddenly "notice" the others lose some of the effect as the affectation of surprise is overtaken by the real thing at the realization of the scope of the project which has taken over most of the back wall by now. The Lord Warden of Aglon rallies valiantly, though:]  
  
I'm afraid that I can't approve of the results of such economizing efforts. Charity projects given to students never equal work created by fully-trained and reimbursed professionals.  
  

Formenos: [sniffing disdainfully]  
    
Do you think that's it?  
  

Aglon:   
    
Well, I can't see anyone paying for that, can you? --At least, I would most certainly hope that they're not.  
  

Formenos:  
    
Oh, I don't know -- I've had grave doubts about the aesthetic sensibilities of our lords and masters ever since I asked the Earthqueen about those bizarre little animals with the horns and she replied, and I quote, "But they're so adorable, in a homely little way." It's one thing to say that they serve a useful purpose in irrigating impacted root systems in grasslands, but to claim to find them "perfectly charming" argues a blindness born of partiality.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Which kelvar were those? The ruel?  
  

Formenos:  
    
No -- though I agree, they also seem badly-constructed and unnecessary to me. If you want a goat, why not make a goat? and if a deer, well, we already have various sorts of deer. How many of these betwixt-and-between herbivores does Arda need? I was speaking of those middling grey animals, something like a cross between hounds and swine, with spiked snouts -- I've no idea what they are, since she only asked me -- with what, in my opinion, was most unseemly levity -- what I wanted to call them. I understand, however, that they are remarkably docile and requiring of attention, which may explain the attraction somewhat.  
  
[various of their targets swallow grins]  
  
Still, I find it difficult that that even the Powers would want this mess -- though equally, I can't believe they'd let anyone make such a chaotic construct in their offices were it not by design.  
  
[Huan makes a plaintive grumble -- the Lord Warden of Aglon scowls at him, and he puts his head down on his forepaws for the moment, unhappy at the conflict, but not ashamed of his decisions.]  
  

Captain: [genial]  
    
This is "let" as in "not worth one's time or trouble to make us desist or undo, for the present," not "let" in the sense of "certainly, do whatever you please." Rather like Lady Yavanna letting Feanor make the Silmarils, as a matter of fact. We didn't ask permission to be back here, or the rest of it, any more than you've done.  
  

Aglon: [coldly]  
    
They seem to let you get away with an awful lot.  
  

Captain:  
    
You haven't figured it out yet, have you?  
  
[as they haven't gotten this cryptic remark either, the Feanorians ignore him -- the Lord Seneschal of Formenos scrutinizes the mural with a critical eye, while his junior associate strolls over to frown upon Beren.]  
  

Aglon:  
    
So you really have got an illegal mortal back here as well.  
  

Beren:  
    
Is it my move or yours?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Er -- yours.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Mortal!  
  

Beren: [looking up]  
    
What? The name is Beren, by the way, since you didn't ask. Seems kind of silly bothering about titles now, but there used to be a "Lord" in front and "of Dorthonion" after, too.   
  

Aglon:  
    
Do you presume to ignore me, Usurper?  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
\--This again? What is it with you people? Were you even talking to me before? 'Cause it didn't sound like it.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Stand up when your superiors address you.  
  

Beren: [calling over]  
    
Were they ever in our chain of command?  
  
[the Captain shakes his head]  
  
Sorry. We're busy.  
  
[the Lord Warden of Aglon steps forward and disarranges the pieces with his foot; the players exchange disgusted looks]  
  

Aglon: [pleasantly]  
    
Again, I repeat my request. --Stand up when I speak to you.  
  

Fourth Guard: [undertone]  
    
Not what I call a request. And they complain about the language changing over there!  
  

Beren: [tolerantly]  
    
You know, I'd learned not to do stuff like that by the time I was eight. Of course, getting walloped, or extra chores, and having to apologize is a good incentive to mind your manners and actually think before acting on impulse.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger starts putting the game back together, not saying a word]  
  

Aglon: [looking down with folded arms]  
    
You've an insolent mouth for one here but on sufferance, human lawbreaker.  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
Horse thief, dog thief, jewel thief, breaking and entering, infiltration, sabotage, assassination attempts, you name it. I've got kings, warlords, demigods, princes, armies and now gods upset at me, so you're going to have to wait your turn. --Though some of those do overlap. --Your former bosses must be pretty steamed over the fact that I succeeded where they didn't even have the nerve to try -- I imagine that must take some of the satisfaction out of his curse coming true for Celegorm. And if even half the story's gotten around by now, people have to be looking pretty strangely at Curufin for trying to kill the one person who actually succeeded in defeating Morgoth in a duel.  
  

Aglon:  
    
You! What claim is this, braggart? You, defeat the Lord of Fetters?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Not me -- my wife. The King's daughter of Doriath. I just chipped off the Silmaril after she was done. --Which is still more than any of you guys ever accomplished.  
  
[the Warden of Aglon goes to kick Beren over where he is sitting -- which proves inadvisable, as the Sindarin Ranger quietly slams a fist -- with chessman -- into his supporting knee, knocking him painfully flat and following by leaping on him before he can recover, yanking his arm up behind his back and setting the point of a realistically-remembered dagger to the back of his neck. As his senior associate moves to assist him the Captain extends his uninjured leg, tripping him, upon which the nearest of the Ten efficiently subdue and disarm him as well, more-or-less assisted by Huan, who has bounded exuberantly in over the gameboard.]  
  

Formenos: [almost speechless with fury]  
    
You -- dishonorable ruffians--  
  

Captain:  
    
I beg your pardon? Beren wasn't doing anything to you -- to say nothing of the rest of us.  
  

Formenos:  
    
Setting upon us with guile and greater numbers--!  
  

Captain:  
    
I don't understand.  
  

Aglon: [snarling in pain]  
    
You outnumber us, idiot!  
  

Captain: [puzzled frown]  
    
Er -- yes, surely you'd noticed that already? That's usually the way it is.  
  

Formenos:  
    
But -- you --  
  

Captain:  
    
Changed the rules. It happens, in war. I should think he'd be aware of it, even if you didn't live long enough to learn that lesson.  
  
[getting up, looking casual but in fact being careful, points to the door]  
  
Bring them along, this is getting boring.  
  
[his subordinates do so, with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.]  
  

Aglon: [shouting as they drag him along]  
    
The Weaver will hear of this!  
  

Youngest Ranger: [patiently, still holding him up at knifepoint]  
    
Yes, milord. I'm sure she will, if she hasn't heard you already.  
  
[over on the hill, Finarfin is jarred out of his introspection by the ruckus, and stares over through the shadows at the fray]  
  

Formenos: [ice]  
    
I will bring my complaints to the Lord of the Halls himself, and your lord will be answerable for your behaviour.  
  

Captain:  
    
Can you be sure to do it while we're around? I want to hear what his Lordship has to say after hearing you complain.  
  

Warrior:  
    
I'll wager the buckle with lions on it that I used to have that he'll ask, "Why are you wasting my time with this?"  
  

Captain:  
    
Hm, no, I think it'll be, "You should be grateful you got off as lightly as you did, since you won't the next time you try kicking one of their friends in the face." --Pitch 'em out.  
  
[the Nargothronders expel their rivals out into the corridor, where the two other Noldor shades pick themselves up and after a moment's temptation, consider the advisability and limp off, their expressions boding no good. As the victorious party returns to their companions, Finarfin catches the eye of the Captain and beckons him over to the hill; after a moment's hesitation the latter obeys the summons. As Beren's opponent kneels down and finishes restoring their match:]  
  

Beren: [undertone]  
    
Is he going to be okay?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [whispering]  
    
He's too swarn to give in for anything that would in life heal of its own. He'd rather just put up with it until he can forget about it. Mind over mind, I guess you'd call it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Does it hurt, to…disappear?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
No. A little bit disorienting, that's all. It's just a matter of honour not to give anything he isn't prepared to take.  
  

Beren:  
    
I see.   
  
[still worried, nodding towards where the Captain is coming to stand before the living King]  
  
What about…?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [shrugging]  
    
You didn't have any trouble managing him.  
  

Beren:  
    
No, but -- he wasn't my boss, ever, either. If I was his liege it would have been different.  
  
[he sighs and frowns at the board, trying to remember what he was going to do, since nothing else is in his control. The camera's focus shifts to the hill, where the Captain bows, his expression a bit wary, to Finarfin:]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Dreamt I, or did in truth behold, deed of mayhem at yonder egress?  
  

Captain:  
    
I wouldn't call it mayhem, sir -- a spot of rowdiness, perhaps. But nothing so much as mayhem.  
  

Finarfin: [disapproving]  
    
Thou dost seem somewhat worse for wear, and yet hast not learnt lesson to avoid affray, than enter it. For I am certain thou dost go somewhat halt, nor that my fancy, for all thou wouldst conceal.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, that's nothing. That lot can't touch me. --Couple of scratches from a friendly set-to with security.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Art not content to be rebel, and thy offense forgiven, but still must thou challenge the gods? Or dost thou jest? --I cannot longer tell, with thee.  
  

Captain: [mischievous]  
    
Don't worry about it, sir -- sometimes I can't either.  
  

Finarfin: [grim smile]  
    
And were those known to me, that thy confederates did thus discharge from here in such high-spirited glee?  
  

Captain:  
    
I'm not sure, my lord. I can't recall if they ever visited the House in the old Days, and you might have met them around the City, but I don't really know. They're followers of your eldest brother. They felt like starting some trouble, beginning with Lord Beren, so we obliged.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I ken not whether I should commend, else condemn -- yet neither, I deem, will make any difference to thy deeds.  
  

Captain:  
    
I'm afraid not, my lord.  
  

Finarfin: [dryly]  
    
Nay, and why should it, at this late pass, that did not formerly?  
  
[the Captain winces a little. Pause]  
  

Captain: [hopeful]  
    
Was that all, sir?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, thou shalt not 'scape so easily, lad.  
  
[checks briefly, and continues with a faint grimace:]  
  
When I did ban you from my doors, I spake in anger, not in considered judgment.  
  

Captain:  
    
But not without justice.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Still 'twas of wrath, that word of mine, and so I would temper it with mercy: thou mayest of a certain come to see thy kin, when ever thou dost will it, when thou departest hence.  
  

Captain:  
    
Thank you, sir.  
  
[he sighs]  
  
\--Assuming they want anything to do with me, of course.  
  

Finarfin: [dryly]  
    
Make no doubt of that.  
  
[aside]  
  
And that indeed hath weight upon my clemency -- for I would not gladly face thy sister with such a decision of my making!  
  

Captain:  
    
At least I've given up slamming doors when I lose my temper.  
  
[Finarfin gives him a sidelong look]  
  
It doesn't do for a senior officer -- far less for a spy.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
The singular -- openness -- of these Halls is far from convenient, and eke most disquieting to we that are little used.  
  

Captain: [sympathetic]  
    
That it can be.  
  

Finarfin: [sternly]  
    
Yet still thou shalt not have place nor post again, among my people, that hast deserted aught thou didst have.  
  
[the Captain nods --silence. Relenting:]  
  
\--Unless thou canst not find other station, and work betimes. There shall be place always at hearthside for thee.  
  

Captain: [gently]  
    
I thank you, my lord. But that will not be necessary, I think. I wouldn't want to take anyone's job, not just hers, and I don't know that I'd be comfortable peeling potatoes and plucking fowl -- not that I've objection to such work as such, but I doubt that, quite frankly, anyone else would be quite easy around me \-- or that I could keep from trying to reorganize any situation you put me into, for efficiency as I saw it.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I would not have thee forwandered and wanting for want of friends.  
  

Captain:  
    
You needn't fear for that, Sir. Aman's a big place, and I know how to live off the land: so long as I don't kill any white deer by mistake, I should be quite all right.   
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou wouldst live as our ancestors in the wilds, ere thou'd dwell 'neath my roof?  
  

Captain: [still more gently]  
    
Would you make me a lord, set among your highest counsellors, and give me authority to do as I saw fit throughout the land?  
  
[they look at each other without speaking]  
  
I didn't expect so.  
  

Finarfin: [cool]  
    
So it is power thou dost hunger for, more than all else.  
  

Captain: [untroubled by the accusation]  
    
My lord, I know as well as any that you never coveted power over others, nor pride of place, nor anything saving the first love of your father. And yet -- now that you have had this task of rule, that never was wanted, and surely cannot be quite so light a burden, despite the peace of Valinor without us to trouble it, could you ever set it aside, and gladly return to the quiet of study and song and your arts, leaving it to another while you stood by powerless to correct?  
  
[Finarfin starts to say something, and cannot.]  
  
Interesting -- it is not only we unhoused who cannot speak counter to what is held at heart, in this place.  
  
[the King gives him a Look of mingled exasperation and admiration]  
  

Finarfin:   
    
Was't ever so, that thou wert so wise, and only kept thy counsel to thine own self, in former Day?  
  

Captain:  
    
I…don't recall, truly, any more. I don't remember that it mattered much to me, one way or the other, what was said by you and your brothers, and your father, save that it distressed you, and Lady Earwen, and the children, and so us for your sakes, that were your people -- except to make remark upon someone else's words to amuse those near me. The arguments and rivalries didn't change the fact that I had to make sure there was meat on the table, and didn't prevent me from riding out in the wind and the light of the Trees, or wandering through the salt-marshes when it looked like the water was the sky for stars.  
  

Finarfin: [shaking his head]  
    
How dost thou support this, that wert ever restive within doors? Is't not passing heavy on thy soul?  
  

Captain: [honest]  
    
Yes. --But I have friends, and we are not wanting in amusement, and it is only for a time. I can wait.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
If mine eldest son's true-love reconcileth not with him, I think he will not go from here.  
  
[pause]  
  
And thou wilt bide here as well. --Why? Why hast thou not reproach, nor for this, nor for the manner of thy -- death?  
  

Captain: [after a brief pause]  
    
I would not, I think ever have cared for greater matters, had not the world we knew ended, and I caught by the lure of lands still more strange and distant. And then -- there was need, and I understood it, and my skills as slayer of birds and deer made an obligation to protect as well as feed in time of famine, and it turned out that I could see better than most the best ways to do that. And my attentiveness, in noting this Elf's scowl or that one's smile, that had been no more than a private aside to friend on envy, or alliance, or hope -- proved matter much more serious, when we were at war. And your son led us through all of it, the Ice, and the Dark, and the bitter days when we nearly slew each other in the Old World, before the Deed of Fingon, and trusted me with the defense of his kingdom, for many a Great Year -- nor blamed me, when I failed in the end.  
  
[silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I have wept for thee, as for all my rungate House, in anger and in soreness of heart and in bitter shame that might not save ye from that madness. And now -- but only now -- have I wept for thee. But though it be but little of while, think it no less true than those most selfish tears. I shall yet fear for thee, though thou dost urge other.  
  

Captain:  
    
My lord, please don't. I'm sure you have troubles enough with your family and Tirion and all. There are possibilities, prospects, that may come to pass. And if not -- there are worse things than to be known as "the lunatic who set out to map the entire continent on foot," after all.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
And if it cometh to worse pass than that?  
  
[silence]  
  
Thou dost not speak thy thought, then.  
  

Captain:  
    
I do not need to -- and I would rather not distress you further. --But it's true.  
  
[Finarfin discreetly rubs at the corner of his eye. Glancing over towards the waterfall:]  
  
Sir, will you kindly excuse me? My friends are growing concerned, and the Beoring most of all.  
  
[the Noldor King nods without speaking -- as he turns to go:]  
  
Er -- should I pack a lunch, my lord?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy pardon?  
  

Captain:  
    
When I come to see my family. You said you didn't want me scrounging off the House, and so I thought maybe I should arrange to bring my own meals along.  
  
[he looks perfectly serious -- Finarfin is not fooled by this apparent innocence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, I had forgotten how much we shall have missed thy freakish jests as well. An thou didst come and partake of none but thine own provender, and such insult to the House revealed as mine own insult unto thee, I had ne'er heard end of it from thy mother nor my son's mother. --But--  
  
[forestalling with a raised hand]  
  
\--an thou wouldst bring, as guest-gift, such kill as thou wouldst, brace of partridge or other thou hast taken, nor should we take amiss, nor seek to find insult where none be meant. My son hath given thee discretion in great matters -- I will not doubt you in such lesser ones. Go, join thy friends, I'll not trouble thee, nor they need send rescue -- not that I deem thou truly needest such, that hath held command over many, and come back from the War far changed from the youth that left us, though no more, verily, than Enedrion, that hath learned to serve without argument nor haughty look, though stranger yet that he should cast himself willingly against me for thy sake, that formerly had never a care for any whose art was not noble nor enduring.  
  
[at the Captain's surprised glance -- faint smile]  
  
\--Nay, didst thou think I perceivéd not? Peace -- go to thy companions.  
  

Captain:  
    
Will you stay here, alone, my lord?  
  
[he looks meaningfully over to the falls]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I should not be so welcome as thou dost deem, I misdoubt.  
  

Captain:  
    
If I say so, you will be, sir.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Belike -- belike after. For the nonce -- I would have peace.  
  

Captain: [bowing]  
    
We'll try to be quieter, then. Afraid I can't promise anything, though. Especially if Huan gets going again.  
  
[Finarfin waves him off, struggling to restrain an inappropriate smile]  


  



	28. Scene IV.v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.v**

  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[things have settled back into the everyone-talks-at-once, usually with energetic gestures, and nobody listens, mode. Somehow Aule's Apprentice has inserted himself into the discussion, by means of an empty chair and assuming that he must have something to contribute, most likely. Overlapping:]  
  

Irmo:  
    
Even if nothing had transpired to interfere, you wouldn't have had more than a half-yen at the most--  
  

Vaire:  
    
I think that you're simply wrong, dear, in your opinion that his commitment is equal to yours--  
  

Luthien: [interrupting, to Irmo]  
    
\--But if you consider how many years many couples spend not seeing each other, then fifty or sixty years all together can come out the same almost--  
  

Nerdanel: [aside]  
    
Thy words cut deeper than any chisel--  
  

Namo: [quietly to his wife]  
    
Excuse me, I need to check on things.  
  

Vaire: [nodding -- to Luthien:]  
    
But he did leave you repeatedly--  
  

Luthien:  
    
Not because he wanted to.  
  

Assistant: [with a slight emphasis on her title, not enough to come across as rude]  
    
Your Highness -- no one forced him to part from you, by means of capture or other duress. I'm afraid that the fact of Lady Vaire's assertion is not open to denial  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Yet, sir, nor mayest thou deny, that to go from another for fear of that one's further safekeeping, is far other than to go from one for love of another, or others, or for seeking after property, or vengeance, or to make such departure, and compel choice of same upon another, in manner of test, that one does truly love -- all these be most greatly differing from the former?  
  

Aule:  
    
And yet this Man too did in fact leave her for the same piece of property, and revenge--   
  

Ambassador: [reluctant both to contradict a Power, and to defend Beren]  
  
    
But, my Lord, there might indeed be said to be compulsion, in the choice my King set upon him--  
  
[the Apprentice comes in, answering Namo's summons, and looking extremely harried as he goes over to the Lord of the Hall's bench]  
  

Namo: [peremptory]  
    
All right, what's going on now?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm…  
  
[he looks rather panic-stricken]  
  

Namo: [exasperated]  
    
The rogue? Remember? That's one of the four things you're supposed to be doing -- waiting for security to check in, taking complaints, forestalling trouble and running errands as needed. How come you're so distracted all the time?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
It -- isn't all the time, my Lord: by my calculations it's only fifty-seven percent of the time--  
  
[at Namo's Look]  
  
Sorry, Sir.  
  

Namo:  
    
So?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes? --Ah, no -- I mean, nothing is going on, the rogue hasn't been seen again yet, and I did put a stop to the rioting in the halls. That is to say--  
  
[he fumbles around, the Lord of the Halls covers his eyes, and the Weaver is sympathetic in turn:]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Don't worry, dear, we understand. Just do the best that you can -- I don't expect the impossible of you.  
  

Aule's Assistant: [undertone]  
    
And a good thing too!  
  
[the Apprentice looks even more abashed and defensive]  
  
    
Vaire:  
    
Who was it this time?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Fingolfin's daughter and her recusant husband. At least to start with--  
  

Vaire: [shaking her head]  
    
Whatever possessed that boy to introduce such an appalling pastime? And of all the people to think of it! And he isn't even embarrassed about it.  
  

Namo: [lacing her fingers in his own consolingly]  
    
You must admit, though, they get it over with a lot faster now that he devised swords. At least we don't get the shouting matches that go on until they run out of insults. I think the shortest one went on for a fortnight nonstop.  
  

Vaire:  
    
\--Yes.  
  
[they share one of those rueful smiles typical of those who share a longtime work/life experience, like ships' crew, or parents. To the Apprentice:]  
  
Just -- what's that expression  
you like to use? -- "keep bringing out the fires," or however it goes.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
"Putting out," -- it comes from summertimes in droughty regions, or an alternate possibility is that it derives from the buildup of internal heat in mulch heaps, but in either case it comes from agrarian societies lacking the ability to reliably control the weather, or so Finrod informs me. Ah -- sorry, my Lady, I don't expect you're interested in that.  
  

Namo: [apparently completely serious -- surely not with any wicked amusement?]  
    
Look at it this way -- you may be obliged to spend time with the involuntarily discorporate, but at least you're picking up cultural contexts for your trivia that you couldn't easily get out of the Archives.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm…yes, Sir.  
  

Luthien: [offended]  
    
What's wrong with being dead?  
  
[he gives her a nervous look and laugh]  
  
I'm serious! Why does he say it like you think it's punishment?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah -- please --  
  
[he looks over at the Lord of the Halls, who just raises his eyebrows back at him -- no help there.]  
  
I -- please don't get angry, Princess Luthien, it's -- just -- not normal, for people to be going about without any bodies on.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Mom always said there were lots of spirits in Valinor who weren't solid and lived in the air.  
  
[her compatriot the Ambassador nods agreement; Irmo covers a slight smile, and the Earthlord's aide is far too bland in his expression to be innocent of amusement at his counterpart's discomfiture.]  
  
Manir and Suruli, she called them. Oh, and some who live in the water, and simply are water, or more like waves in the water. No bodies either -- do you act different around them?  
  

Apprentice: [desperately]  
    
Yes, but they never had them -- they didn't have them to start with and then lose them.  
  

Luthien:  
    
What difference does it make?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
It's -- it's just creepy. It's not the way things are supposed to be!  
  
[Luthien gives him a narrow Look]  
  

Luthien:  
    
You seem almost scared. Why? Does it make you think it might happen to you? Or have you been listening to too many spooky stories about people getting killed after seeing a ghost or being led into some danger or being possessed? I bet I can tell you plenty more you've never even heard of, about headless warriors and haunted bridges and the ghosts of bulls on the roof, and I bet I can even make up some more just as good as those, too!  
  

Apprentice: [austerely]  
    
From my studies in the Archives I know that not all of those are fiction, your Highness.  
  

Luthien:   
    
Yes, but more of them are than aren't. Maybe you don't sit up late making up stories in Valinor, but trying to come up with an even better story than the next person is something we all do -- mortals and Elves -- in Beleriand. I can see you know I'm right.  
  
[curious]  
  
Are you really that afraid of us? Even you Valinoreans?  
  
[she turns to look right at Nerdanel, catching her in a slight flinch]  
  
It seems strange that you'd be haunted without even being haunted, after a manner of speaking!  
  

Nerdanel: [with a wry smile]  
    
Nay -- for in the reality beneath the Moon and Sun, few needs must think upon such matters, when they are not forced upon our recollection. --Or so it is for many, I do believe.  
  

Luthien: [looking back at Nienna's Apprentice]  
    
Why? Have any of us "discorporates" actually done anything to harm you here?  
  
[the Apprentice looks guilty]  
  
Have I done anything to you except "yell at" you? -- which is only what I'd do if I were here in the flesh as well.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well -- no, your Highness.  
  

Luthien:  
    
So what's the problem, hm? Why are you so troubled by us? You're not really scared, are you? You seem more disgusted and curious at the same time.  
  

Apprentice: [pleading]  
    
My Lord--  
  
[the Lord of the Halls shakes his head]  
  

Namo:   
    
When you arranged with my sister to take you on, you already knew she spends much of her time here. Did you think she was going to leave you home to sweep out her Halls or something to teach you patience? This is another learning experience. Now either answer Luthien's question, or don't.  
  

Apprentice: [sighing]  
    
Yes, Sir.  
  
[back and forth between Luthien and Vaire]  
  
\--Partly. It's also the constant complaining that I have to listen to -- not from you, your Highness -- about how there aren't any bright colors or lights or proper sensations -- though part of that's the decor, begging your pardon, ma'am -- and how dull and boring it is with nothing to do except remember and talk -- at least until your cousin arrived -- though I do agree -- well, think that they have a point, at least -- with the Sindar who say it would be much improved by some potted plants, at least--  
  

Vaire: [nettled]  
    
If you want plants, you can figure out a way to make them grow in here.  
  
[pointedly]  
  
\--If you haven't enough to keep you busy, that is.  
  

Apprentice: [getting distracted]  
    
What if we took species that already thrive underground and, oh, sort of changed them to make them look like ones from Outside? I'll bet that--  
  

Vaire: [half-rising]  
    
No! It's hard enough ensuring that fungus doesn't grow in here, given the atmospheric conditions, I won't have you encouraging it on purpose!  
  

Apprentice: [meekly]  
    
Yes, my Lady.  
  

Aule's Assistant: [thoughtful]  
    
What about artificial plants? It seems to me, -- subject of course to your approval, noble ones -- that one might be able to fabricate versions of imperishable materials that would be equal to, or even superior, to the originals in appearance.  
  
[Nienna's student raises his hands]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I don't know that anyone would be pleased by that. It's the absence of growing things, you see. I try to explain that, well, these are the Halls of the Dead, you know.  
  

Assistant:  
    
\--Primitives.  
  
[the Doriathrin lord gives him an affronted look -- his Princess is less inhibited by reverence]  
  

Luthien:  
    
We are not! We had exactly the same problem in Menegroth, and we solved it in several ways. One's to bring in live plants in vessels, and just keep them in for a little while, and then put them out in the sun again after. Cut greenery also works nicely to embellish a hall seasonally.  
  

Vaire:  
    
But then they dry out, and bits drop off them onto the floor, and have to be cleaned up.  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
So? Anyway, that's just one thing you can do. What we mostly did, was to make sculptures like he--  
  
[nods towards Aule's aide]  
  
\--was talking about. My mother designed a lot of it, and the Dwarven architects built in spaces for the trees and things to go, and some of it was carved out of stone, and then painted, and some of it was enameled metal attached on, and some of it's glass with colors and wire inside to make the leaf-veining. There's all sorts of things one can do.  
  

Nerdanel: [sniffing]  
    
Myself, I have always favoured the use of stones most aptly colored in themselves, the which possess inherently the fitting sheen, as though nature indeed had intended for the purpose of the work.  
  

Aule:  
    
But it's very slow, 'Danel. If you can make exactly the hue you need, why not do it? Why waste time hunting about for it?  
  

Assistant:  
    
My thoughts exactly, Sir.  
  

Nerdanel: [obstinate -- an old argument, obviously]  
    
Yet must I aver, my Lord, that never doth the made piece hold full richness, nor true depth nor variety, that stone which hath grown by longsome layering and the free changes of the water, and fire, and weight upon it, shall inevitably compass.  
  

Aule:  
    
But it's exactly the same process! Only faster, in the workshop. I really do believe that you only think you can tell the difference because you know that one's synthetic.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well, and of course, they're never exactly the same as real leaves. But they're pretty, and it's fun, in a way, to have something made out of something that it isn't, especially if it's very different. It wouldn't be half as interesting if they were made of wood, even if you could make ones that looked so much like them out of wood, which you can't, because it isn't translucent.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nor is there translucency in paint!  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head]  
    
You can make it like enamel, in thin layers, and mix mica in with it. Daeron came up with that, to make letters show up on a dark background.  
  

Ambassador: [sadly reminiscent]  
    
\--He was so frustrated that people only ever used the ideas for monograms on doors and such.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Or paint over metal leaf and have the shininess show through that way. We put stars on ceilings with that.  
  
[looking up]  
  
I bet you could do that in here. And not as much work as any of the rest of it. [Vaire and the others look up as well, frowning thoughtfully; --maybe, maybe--]  
  

Assistant:  
    
Though it would appear terribly derivative, I fear, as though you were trying to copy Varda's designs for Taniquetil.  
  

Irmo:  
    
But the stars are her designs, so any stars are going to be based on her work. You might as well say that she was being repetitive herself and criticize the inside of the mansion, at that. --I think it would be very attractive, Vaire.  
  

Orome: [half-smiling]  
    
Remind me: how did this turn into a discussion of naturalistic decorating styles?  
  

Namo:  
    
Very good question.  
  
[he gives the Apprentice a raised eyebrow]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I think I should be getting back to keep an eye on the stone in case anyone tries to report in.  
  
[he makes an unceremonious exit/retreat]  
  

Irmo: [to his brother]  
    
Do you really think Nia has any hope of succeeding there?  
  

Namo: [remanifesting his mug]  
    
If not, she's going to be taking me on next.  


  



	29. Scene IV.vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all her gestures and attitudes should be very natural and unformal -- it is only dealing with her ex that she is tense and self-conscious.) The Steward checks his defensive reaction, looking away with an anguished expression.]

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.vi**

  
  
    
[The Hall]  
  
[A new individual arrives on scene -- but after a brief alert everyone relaxes and the outer sentinels do not change position to block the newcomer. She is another shade, but somewhat different in appearance from any other Elves we have seen so far -- for one thing, she's a good bit shorter (though still taller than Beren) as well as barefoot. There should be a somewhat windblown, beachcomber look to her outfit, and her jewelry is all of strands of small pearls. Her speech is not as archaic as the other Valinorean Eldar, but should have somewhat of a precise intonation -- slightly "old-fashioned" in tone. Julia Ormond might be good in this part.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
So you're the ones who have been running and shouting in the halls. I might have known it.  
  

Captain: [dignified]  
    
We were not "running and shouting in the halls." We were conducting an experiment. Wh--  
  
[they tend to cut over each other's sentences like relatives or very old acquaintances often do, without noticing or taking offense.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You could have fooled me. Is--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--So what are you doing here, Curlew?  
  

Teler Maid: [rolling her eyes]  
    
It is not "Curlew."  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Sanderling? --Murrelet? --Lapwing? It's got to be some sort of shorebird, you're standing on one leg again.  
  
[she adjusts her posture]  
  

Teler Maid: [mock exasperation]  
    
It is Maiwe, and well you know it.  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
Curlew, Sea-Mew -- you can't expect me to keep them straight. Next thing you'll be saying "jib" and "clinker" like those are real words that mean things.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I was going to rail at you, you know.  
  

Captain:  
    
Rail \-- isn't that some kind of waterbird? --Any particular reason? I mean, you could do it now, if you wanted.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Are you just going to keep on being silly?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well -- until you get really annoyed. Or perhaps a little bit before that. So why are you here? --Does it have anything to do with why you wanted to yell at me?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Not you personally. All who were disturbing of the peace.  
  
[frowning]  
  
If you're here, does that mean that he is back, as well?  
  

Captain:  
    
You didn't hear?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Hear what?  
  

Captain:  
    
Er…  
  
[she looks up, much as Finrod did just before Finarfin's entrance, and simply disappears, not as the Powers, but gradually blending into the background]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Wow. --Who was that?  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah--  
  
[he looks extremely perturbed]  
  
Maiwe--? Are you all right?  
  
[she does not reappear]  
  
She -- used to be a colleague of mine. I -- don't--  
  
[Beren looks at the Sindarin Ranger, who only shrugs helplessly]  
  
\--Ah. I wonder\-- I'll bet that's--  
  
[the Captain grimaces, shaking his head and calls to the empty air:]  
  
\--Maiwe, if it's the Lord Seneschal again, don't worry -- he can't hurt you if you don't allow him, and he'll probably be so embarrassed he'll ignore you anyway. And if he isn't we'll send him packing.  
  

Beren:  
    
What--  
  
[at that moment the Steward reenters the Hall, looking quite pleased with himself. The Captain puts his forehead down on his knee, grimacing.]  
  

First Guard:  
    
Hullo, Sir. We didn't expect to see you back any time soon.  
  

Warrior:  
    
We thought you were playing chess with the King's uncle.  
  

Steward:  
    
I was. I won.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
How, Sir?  
  

Steward: [a trifle smugly]  
    
That is for me to know, and the High King to endeavour to find out.  
  
[on the further side of one of the columns, the Sea-elf girl reappears and leans back against it, her arms folded tightly about herself, visibly in the throes of indecision]  
  

Captain:  
    
Edrahil…  
  

Steward:  
    
What? --Do not, I insist, involve me in another such scheme which requires me not to come to your assistance while you get cut to ribbons. I have better things to do, believe me on that--  
  
[the newest visitor makes up her mind and leaves the shelter of the pillar, coming out to confront him in silence]  
  

Captain: [unneccessarily]  
    
A mutual acquaintance of ours is here and has been asking after you.  
  
[they are staring at each other without hearing his words, she still with folded arms and and narrowed eyes, he in total shock and disbelief]  
  

Teler Maid: [grim satisfaction]  
    
I see that you are returned at last.  
  
[the Steward continues to stare at her, completely stunned. Beren gets up and goes over to him, looking worried, but not interrupting]  
  

Teler Maid: [acerbic]  
    
I suppose I should not be surprised that you have no greeting for me, when you had no farewell before.  
  

Captain: [pleading]  
    
Maiwe…  
  
[it takes the Steward several attempts before he can manage to say anything]  
  

Steward: [horrified]  
    
But how \-- how long--?  
  

Teler Maid: [tossing her head]  
    
As to your second, for as long as you have been gone; as to your first, --can you not guess, then?  
  

Steward: [in denial]  
    
But -- I made certain that your family were all safe, and…they were as certain as I, that you…were at your cousins' home in Tirion…  
  
[he breaks off, grimacing at his own words]  
  

Teler Maid: [sharply]  
    
I do have other friends, you know. --Or I did.  
  
[he flinches again]  
  
After that our last fight I returned home, but did not wish to hear my kin tell me what I already knew, that there was for us not a jot of hope of any bliss, and I went to a certain house of my acquaintance, where my childhood friends would not tell me aught whatsoever, and I might have some small amount of peace before going back to my work where I must see you again.  
  
[with a certain bitter satisfaction:]  
  
And we went out on their boat, and you were not there to dispraise it, or to speak with displeasure of the weather, or the canting of the deck, or the noise of the wind, or our crude chanteys, or the food -- and we had but put in to port when the Lights went out, and I would have gone back to make sure mischance had not befallen you, but my friends persuaded me to wait, that it was not safe, and so we waited for word, and then\--  
  
[she stops, not broken up, just angry, staring at him with tight lips]  
  

Steward: [shaking his head in dismay]  
    
But why -- why not -- why are you here yet, and not returned to your parents? Why should you remain in this place for so long, when no Doom bars you from going Outside?  
  

Teler Maid: [ice]  
    
Because I did not wish to learn that you had been party to it.  
  
[he staggers, taking an involuntary step backwards and would fall if Beren did not catch him]  
  

Beren:  
    
What's wrong, sir?  
  
[the Steward only shakes his head, overcome, leaning on Beren's shoulder]  
  
Sir?  
  

Steward: [choked]  
    
If -- if you had somehow survived your encounter with the Wolf, and the King of Doriath had not \-- would you not judge there was something far amiss between you, if your lady's first assumption was that -- you were in some way directly responsible?  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh -- yeah. Wait -- I know you weren't part of the Kinslaying, so -- oh. She thinks you were--?!  
  
[to the Sea-elf, urgently:]  
  
No, he didn't, and not only that -- he would never, ever do anything like that. He's one of the most upright and kind people I've ever known in my whole life.   
  
[She gives him a look of increasing curiosity]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Who are you?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
The reason he's dead.  
  
[the Steward makes an exasperated noise]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Are you a creature of the Enemy? For you do look somewhat like, at least in accord with the tales I have heard.  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh…  
  

Captain: [solemnly]  
    
I assure you, the Lord Beren is no more nor less of an Orc than I am.  
  
[she gives him a sharp look in turn]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are making fun of me.  
  

Captain:  
    
I'm making a joke, is all. Have I ever made fun of you?  
  

Teler Maid: [sulkily]  
    
You were much used to tease me.  
  

Captain:  
    
To make you laugh. And you gave back just as good, hm?  
  
[she nods, quickly and unwillingly, and moves on]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then what manner of creature are you? Surely our folk who remained have not become so rough and wild in the meanwhiles!  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm a Man. Or was -- the ghost of one, now.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are one of the Secondborn?!  
  
[amazed, she reaches unthinkingly towards Beren; equally unthinkingly, the Steward deflects her hand before she can touch him]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do not presume to push me about so, my lord!  
  
[he freezes, expressionless]  
  

Beren:  
    
My lady -- please -- it wasn't you, people have been trying to beat me up a lot and it was just a reflex.  
  

Teler Maid: [speaking to him, but looking at the Steward]  
    
I am no lady. I am a "humble rustic," and no more, who should be more comprehensible of the signal honour done me by the King's house, in securing for me such a fine post and an opportunity to raise myself beyond my simple origins in the home of his daughter.  
  
[the Steward hides his face against Beren's shoulder]  
  

Beren:  
    
Did he -- did you -- really say those things to…?  
  
[head still bowed, the Steward nods]  
  

Teler Girl:  
    
Does he not speak slightingly to you, then, nor is ever critical of your words and manners in the sight of all?  
  

Beren: [honestly]  
    
\--Sometimes.  
  
[pause]  
  
But that isn't the whole of it by a long shot. He died rather than betray me, or King Finrod -- and that means way more than just words.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:   
    
Lord Ingold is dead? He is here as well?  
  
[for the first time she looks more upset than angry]  
  

Captain:  
    
He's the one mostly responsible for the disorderly conduct that bothered you. It wouldn't have occurred to us to try without him.  
  

Steward:  
    
You…did not know we were here, ere now?  
  

Teler Maid: [sniffing]  
    
I keep to myself: I have no wish to be snubbed by Exiles here, as if this were Tirion. I only came to complain to Lady Nienna about the noise having resumed once again.  
  

Captain:  
    
But even if you didn't realize -- I'm sure someone would have told you it was us.   
  
[the Sea-elf looks simultaneously guilty and stubborn]  
  

Teler Maid: [defiantly]  
    
I never asked.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Oh.  
  

Steward: [with difficulty]  
    
Forgive me--  
  

Teler Maid: [cutting him off]  
    
\--Still you would tell me then, fine sir, what I should say or must think? I have a name \-- however little you have liked it, and called me "a half-savage, yet" for taking it to my heart -- and if you would have me hear you, then needs must address me by it.  
  
[he stares at her, unable to keep going, and she tosses her head]  
  
I did not think you would. --Or that any word of mine would make you change your ways.  
  
[he shakes his head helplessly]  
  
What, then? No words at all for me? Not even to answer me, that I may have peace from wondering, if you were among those who slew us in the Darkness?  
  

Steward:  
    
I swear to you -- upon mine own name -- never have I raised bow or blade against any of our people, in life or in death, saving in gaming or in defence.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Defence! Was that not what it was called, when Fingon and the companions of Fingon came to kill us too?  
  
[he does not say anything more]  
  
Why could you not even come to speak to me, not even to bid me farewell before your going?  
  

Steward:  
    
I -- we did not think it would be so long. --Home before the last Leaf fell, some of us said at the outset, and thought it possible.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
And still you did not think to seek me out, and ask me whether I would or no?  
  

Steward: [as though unable not to answer her]  
    
As we had fought, and you were angry enough to depart the House that we might not meet even though it be a high Feast, and your Lady deeming you so aggrieved that she did chide me for it though I a guest at table, and the chill of your temper like the mist off the surf -- I judged it should be "no." --Should it have been other?  
  

Teler Maid: [tossing her head]  
    
Again you presume to know my mind without my speaking it. --And no farewell, not even in anger, that would have told you in the seeking-after and not finding, that I was not in Tirion that hour--?  
  

Steward: [in the same compelled manner]  
    
It was a madness upon us, like a fire within our hearts, scorching away all other thought and reason. And it seemed to me that I and all of us might return in blaze of glory, having done deeds worthy of the gods, and I should make the songs of this our victory that every lip should sing -- and then you would no longer dare disdain me, nor turn from me in the coldness of your anger, and in your eyes I should see naught but myself reflected in your admiration. And so in pride, and anger, and insanity -- I left without farewell.  
  
[silence]  
  

Teler Maid: [softly]  
    
You speak of fire, my lord. --Do you know how I was thieved of my body, while you listened to the words of the Spirit of Fire and dreamed your bright dreams of battles and great journeys? To make the defenders leave off the fight, or else choose betwixt protecting ships and breathing children, his people fired the homes along the waterfront, and set all quayside alight, and the rafters burned, and the wooden galleries that crossed the streets between the upper stories, and I was trapped when I would flee, under the wood and the fallen tiles --  
  
[he shakes his head but she does not stop]  
  
\--and none could hear my screams above the roaring of the flames. What was I to know, but that you were amongst the ones of those warriors, that numbered so many of them as your friends? --And ever did speak, even as those friends, speak slightingly of our poor Wanderers', Thirdlings', Latecomers' ways?  
  
[he opens his mouth and tries to say something, but it is not audible -- perhaps her name]  
  
And what of you, fine sir, Edrahil Enedir's son of House Mahtan? Did you find glory, beyond the waves, did you find what you dreamt of that I could never give you, enough honour and power and admiration to quench your limitless thirst, and deeds enough to busy your restive heart, that would not rest beside mine, and yet would not set me free -- was there wealth and renown enough to please you in those lands? And at the end did you meet your Doom in manner fit for the songs of your leader's boast, that all have heard, living and dead? What mighty deed for our people's remembering cost you your life? Surely it was no panicked, headlong flight into a trap, like a fish into the nets -- not you!  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
You -- you don't want to -- to know about such things--  
  
[she stamps her foot impatiently]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
O most wise and clever and eloquent of Elves, when we two were on the green earth together, it was you who would speak, whether I wished to hear or to speak myself, and who would be silent when I prayed you speak to me, and not to turn your face aside, or speak to another as if I were not there, for your ill-temper and your pride. And now you will answer me, will you or nill you, and you will not tell me what it is that I do not wish to hear.  
  
[he answers as before, unwillingly but under compulsion]  
  

Steward:  
    
No songs will be made of our end -- I died unknown, a thrall, enchained, blind, my voice long worn away in weeping, food for a hellspawn beast, and none of my days' work across the years before meant anything by comparison, nor shall I be remembered for accomplishment in the places where I served, nor any there mark or miss my leaving.  
  

Beren: [earnest]  
    
Sir -- that -- that can't be true. They'll find out how much they needed you, if they haven't already.  
  

Teler Maid: [chill]  
    
And -- in all those days and years -- was there ever an hour in which you thought of another left behind, or missed me?  
  

Steward:  
    
There were few that I did not. When I could no longer call your face to mind or make your voice sound in my thoughts I remembered the Sea, and dreamed of the gulls' cry until my turn came to perish.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you have always feared the Sea.  
  
[he nods. Wonderingly:]  
  
\--I did not know that until I only now did utter it. I thought…that you considered it but a dull and formless wasteland, unlike the gracious halls of stone…and thus you would not willingly go to it. And all the time -- it was but fear, that you hid in guise of pride.  
  
[he cannot answer. Suddenly loud:]  
  
Edrahil! What will you do to me, mad lovesick fool that I was, and am, that left me so long cold and grey before I was brought to this, and now are come back to trouble my rest and drive me mad once more with your aloofness and your mistral moods, that I cannot follow, being that they change quicker than the wind, so that not even my namesake gull could match them?  
  
[he clutches Beren's arm harder, too stricken to notice or care about the audience or the audience's distress]  
  

Beren:  
    
Please, don't--  
  
[she turns her attention towards him again, waiting, and he sighs]  
  
I was going to ask you not to be angry with him any more about leaving, but that isn't it, is it? You two had problems way back before the Return. That was stupid of me. But he is different now.  
  
[She moves even closer to them and reaches her hand out to Beren, brushing aside his hair to get a better look at his ear and touching his unshaven cheek -- not in a rude way, but very childlike in her curiousity -- while staring into his eyes. (Note: all her gestures and attitudes should be very natural and unformal -- it is only dealing with her ex that she is tense and self-conscious.) The Steward checks his defensive reaction, looking away with an anguished expression.]  
  

Teler Maid: [amazed]  
    
\--Aftercomer. You are so very different from they who company you.  
  

Beren: [nods]  
    
So are you.  
  

Teler Maid: [suspicious]  
    
Howso mean you?  
  

Beren: [smiling]  
    
You don't tower over me.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Are all your folk so short, then?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nah, I'm about in the middle. I was kind of tall for my tribe, 'cause my mother's folk are tall, as tall as Noldor most of them, but the Haladin are a lot shorter than we are. I should explain -- the People of Haleth are another tribe of Men who live in a different part of Beleriand. So did Hador -- that's Ma's side -- but they lived in another different part, up by the High King's holdings.  
  
[she frowns at him doubtfully]  
  
I probably shouldn't have brought that up, because of the Kinslaying.  
  
[the Sea-elf continues to give him a dubious Look]  
  
Only maybe you don't know about how Fingon is the High King now -- only that's just the High King in Middle-earth, not here, of course. Or does everybody here know about King Fingolfin? Not that this is really relevant…  
  
[he trails off]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I am not following your words well -- but I think that it all comes to your first "no."  
  

Beren: [wry]  
    
Everyone here will tell you that I do a real good job of confusing people with my explanations, not just Lord Edrahil here.  
  

Teler Maid: [challengingly]  
    
You know that he was one of those most resenting of the notion that your people should have our place, and those lands of Middle-earth that had been ours, and should have been yet, had we not ever crossed over the Sea?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. He told me all about how Morgoth used to play on each person's vanity and goals like a harp, even the ones that he never said out loud, and how nobody realized it until it was all over.  
  

Teler Maid: [short laugh]  
    
If he had but listened half so well to me!  
  
[None of them can say anything to this -- she turns away distractedly and begins to wander off, oblivious of the curious and concerned looks of former aquaintances.]  
  

Steward: [whispering]  
    
Maiwe…  
  
[she turns back and looks at him, waiting.]  
  
Did you truly think -- that I had taken part -- in those murders?  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Sometimes. --When I was most particularly angry, or surpassingly sad. --Which was the most of the time. --I want to see Lord Ingold.  
  

Captain:  
    
He's off on a mission at the moment.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What quaint manner of jargon is that?  
  

Captain:  
    
Sorry. He's gone upon an errand and he didn't say whither.  
  

Teler Maid: [uncertainly]  
    
Is Lady Nienna here? I think -- that I need to talk to her.  
  

Captain:  
    
I haven't seen her about. But she might well be. --Do you want me to go with you and help you look for her?  
  

Teler Maid: [shaking her head]  
    
No. I need to think \-- without being talked at.  
  
[she vanishes abruptly -- the Captain sighs.]  
  

Steward: [sharply]  
    
Say what you would.  
  

Captain:  
    
All right.  
  
[he does not say anything further]  
  

Steward: [tiredly -- to Beren]  
    
As well yourself.  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
You didn't owe me that. It wasn't any of my business before.  
  
[the other stops leaning on him and moves a few paces away, still looking dazed and lost -- Beren follows, staying at his elbow]  
  

Steward:  
    
It is not necessary that you hover so.  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't want you to fade, sir.  
  

Steward:  
    
Unlike yourself, there is no place else for me to go.  
  

Beren:  
    
Couldn't you go all sort of not there like she did, or like the K-- like you said Finrod did about me?  
  

Steward:  
    
I have too many responsibilities for such self-indulgence.  
  
[quickly]  
  
I do not mean to accuse our lord of such -- only that there are those whose behavior is disproportionate to their suffering. --Nor would I imply that your near-fading was of the same.  
  

Beren:  
    
I know, sir.  
  

Steward: [less remotely]  
    
Thank you for your kindness, and your support. I know well that I am…  
  

Beren:  
    
\--pernickety?  
  

Steward:  
    
\--I would have said,  
"exacting"--  
  

Beren:  
    
Exactly--  
  

Steward: [brief involuntary smile]  
    
\--and waspish of humour, and despite what you have often alleged, it is not "all an act" -- I truly am of a chill and critical nature, against which I must ever contend--  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, you keep winning.  
  

Steward:  
    
You're most kind.  
  
[straightening his shoulders]  
  
I am all right. I shall manage.  
  

Beren:  
    
You're still shaking, sir.  
  

Steward:  
    
I am still undone.  
  
[Huan gets up and comes over, somewhat uncertainly, to lean his head over the Steward's shoulder -- the latter does not shrug him off, but rather pats his nose a little absently as if it were the Hound who was in need of comfort]  
  

Captain: [hesitant]  
    
You should also know -- Lady Nerdanel is here. She arrived after you left, in conjunction with him--  
  
[he nods towards where Finarfin is lost in meditation; his colleague glances over, then looks at him bleakly]  
  
I thought you might not have noticed yet, either. It seems only the broadest outlines of our disaster reached them before. However it goes, it's probably going to be not unlike the Princes towards their brother, only worse.  
  
[the Steward continues to regard him in silence.]  
  
I thought you'd rather be surprised now than surprised later.  
  

Steward:  
    
The notion of retreating for the rest of the yen has ever-increasing appeal.  
  

Beren: [gloomy]  
    
My problems hardly seem much compared to yours. I mean, even our fights \-- we only had a couple months of arguing and it was all about the same thing. Not centuries. And how complicated can it get? Who here doesn't have family mad at them here?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [quiet]  
    
\--Er…me. --As far as I know.  
  

Beren:  
    
I swear, this is worse than any of the grazing-drainage disagreements in Drun! I mean, you all knew each other, or worked for each other, or were related to each other, and then you fought, and went away, and now you're back and people aren't speaking to you, or each other because of you, and these are all the same people.  
  

Soldier: [aside to the Warrior]  
    
That's got to be the shortest version of the Noldolante ever.  
  

Beren: [getting more upset]  
    
What are you going to do? Even if you wait a hundred and whatever years, is it going to fix things? If she's--  
  
[glancing at the doorway]  
  
\--still furious with him\--  
  
[to the Steward]   
  
\--and your girlfriend's still angry at you \-- and all your parents! -- after what, four hundred sixty years? That's not going to make a difference. What's going to happen to you out there?  
  

Steward: [anxious]  
    
This, at least, is one trouble for which you cannot blame yourself.  
  

Captain:  
    
Don't underestimate Beren. Dangerous thing, that.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
I'm sure that if we give him a little bit of time, he'll manage to figure out some way he's responsible for Alqualonde.  
  

Captain:  
    
Why stop at the Kinslaying? Why not everything in the world? I'm sure that with some thought, every possible misfortune in Arda could be laid at Beren's door.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Guys--  
  

Steward:  
    
An interesting problem, to be sure. --Are we limiting ourselves to material causality, or are we admitting metaphysical causality as well? For if the latter, I think it should hardly be any challenge at all.  
  

Beren: [raising his hand in protest]  
    
Oh, come on\--  
  
[The Steward gives him a very small, very knowing smile -- distractions.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Start making the list, Edrahil--  


 


	30. Scene IV.vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  


**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.vii

  
  
  
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[It's very loud and the discussion quite animated.]  
  

Aule:  
    
But if you made all the gears out of crystal, then the water wouldn't corrode them--  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Would they not be so heavy then that they'd sink, my Lord?  
  

Aule's Assistant:  
    
No, they'd be on rods lifted off the bottom, at varying heights -- quite possibly adjustable, sliding along a series of paths not unlike a clock's elements--  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
'Tis a great challenge to capture the depth of iridescence natural to plume or scale in enamels, for the layers seek to obscure and oft groweth milky like to ice--  
  
[Looking more than usually sardonic, the Doomsman of Arda snaps his fingers and a flash, similar to that of a white phosphorus flare, illuminates the room, though without the "bang" that usually accompanies such intensely-bright fireworks. Instant silence, followed by looks either abashed or irritated from the participants as the glare fades back into the basin and the lighting returns to normal.]  
  

Namo: [flatly]  
    
Well. Now that we've talked about the technical requirements of preparing limestone to receive paint, the best way to create the effect of sunlight indoors, the problems of dust in relation to various artistic and domestic processes, and determined that neither my wife nor I have any desire to have fake trees or replicas of small woodland animals affixed thereto -- not even realistic ones fetchingly rendered in lifelike tones of striated agates with polished jet eyes, Nerdanel, Tavros -- cluttering up our house, though the decision is still pending on small, restrained, and I do emphasize restrained, sculptures of plants in hanging baskets, we'll have to think about that -- could we, possibly, return to our original discussion? Or am I being totally unreasonable in asking that?  
  
[pause]  
  
And no artificial goldfish either, unless Vaire wants them.  
  

Irmo:  
    
I really don't like it when you're sarcastic, brother.  
  

Namo:  
    
That isn't on topic either.  
  

Vaire: [trying not to smile]  
    
\--Darling\--  
  

Luthien:  
    
Why? We're only all going to say the same things all over again to each other.  
  
[pause]  
  

Namo:  
    
Very likely, yes. --Particularly if you're going to take that attitude from the start.  
  

Luthien:  
    
You're not being fair -- it's not just me who's being obstinate, so please don't make it sound that way.  
  
[he raises an eyebrow to her; Irmo struggles not to smile. (Orome doesn't even bother trying.)]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I confess I do not find the matter so simple as 'twas first present--  
  

Vaire: [aside]  
    
I suppose it would be impolite -- not to mention giving the wrong message entirely -- if I were to fetch some knitting?  
  


  



	31. Scene IV.viii - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sfx -- the drops do not land on the floor, but vanish continually as they fall, unless (as with Huan shaking himself off) they strike another spirit: the Platonic Form of Water doesn't leave puddles.) Abruptly he turns and walks evenly away with as much dignity as he can pull together. To his chagrin and annoyance the Captain accompanies him, and follows him to the door]

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.viii**

  
  
  
[The Hall.]  
  
[Finarfin is sitting with his head bowed on his arms, when shouting from over by the waterfall makes him look up]  
  

Ranger: [very loudly]  
    
But what about Ungoliant? Eh? What about Ungoliant?  
  
[Finarfin is compelled to leave the hill and come investigate]  
  

Soldier:  
    
Well? What about her?  
  

Ranger:  
    
You can't just keep saying, "Because of the Silmarils," for everything. You have to say something like, oh … "Because if Ungoliant hadn't crossed through Beleriand leaving her little brood, there wouldn't have been any giant spiders for Beren to fight through on the way to Doriath."  
  

Warrior:  
    
Excellent! We can take her off the list. What about Helka and Ringil, though? I don't see any way we can connect Beren with them.  
  
[They notice that Finarfin is present and observing them, and go suddenly quiet. Several of the Ten rise and bow, uncertainly; the Captain nods, while the Steward stares ahead fixedly]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\--Dare I ask, knowing shall  
regret …?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
They're trying to cheer me up by proving that I'm responsible for everything that's ever gone wrong in the universe.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
…  
  
[starts to speak, stops, then has to ask]  
  
And doth it have th'effect intent in it?  
  

Beren: [bemused, nods]  
    
Actually, --yeah.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Oh.  
  
[pause]  
  
Such exceedingly -- strange \-- friends.  
  
[starts to walk away, shaking his head]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [whispering]  
    
Who's he talking about?  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Beren, I think.  
  

Ranger:  
    
I thought he meant all of us.  
  

Finarfin: [turning back]  
    
\--Strange, but -- admirably loyal.  
  

Beren: [smiles]  
    
I know.  
  
[in the background two of the Ten are having a whispered argument:]  
  

Warrior: [nudging his neighbor]  
    
Go on, ask them!  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
No! Stop it! It would be rude.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Well, if you won't, I will--  
  
[louder]  
  
Psst! Beren!  
  

Beren:  
    
Hm?  
  

Warrior:  
    
What was it like, when you two intersected?  
  
[the Sindarin Ranger closes his eyes and looks very much as though he'd like to vanish]  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  

Warrior:  
    
You and his Majesty's father -- we saw it when you were talking.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  
[he glances up at Finarfin]  
  
Not much. Like light, I guess, -- like when the sun bounces off something like a horse-brass or a sword, you know how you don't really feel it unless it's in your eyes, but you can tell sort of.  
  
[giving Finarfin another hesitant look]  
  
For me at least.  
  

Finarfin: [looking at the cavalry officer's shade]  
    
Of what matter is thy question?  
  
[the Warrior is too embarrassed now to say; Finarfin turns to Beren with an inquiring expression.]  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
What it felt like, when you tried to take the Ring from me. We were wondering -- earlier, that is -- what would happen if someone living hit one of us.  
  

Finarfin: [lips tightening]  
    
I did not strike thee, boy, nor did e'en attempt such.  
  

Beren: [very polite]  
    
No sir. We meant colliding in general as well -- even only by accident.  
  
[he glances over at his friends, and then back at the Elf-King]  
  
Um, did it -- feel like anything to you?  
  
[pause]  
  
If you're not offended for some reason by me asking that.  
  
[Finarfin only looks at him, not saying anything, and he get embarrassed -- then looks back up with a self-amused hopefulness]  
  

Finarfin: [shaking his head]  
    
Less than twenty-four and six--!  
  
[even more mildly]  
  
\--Like to naught but to a shadow passed suddenly 'neath on summer's day, or to a chill air, that moveth off the water -- and to naught else.  
  
[pause]  
  
Thou art a curious folk.  
  

Beren:  
    
Ah, did you mean that "curious," like we wonder about things, or "curious" as meaning really strange? --Your Majesty.  
  

Finarfin: [slight smile]  
    
Aye.  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay.  
  
[he looks away, hiding a grin]  
  
Next dumb question, were you talking about my people, or about us?  
  
[gesturing around at them all]  
  

Finarfin: [bland]  
    
Most assuredly.  
  

Beren:  
    
You know, I can see now where he gets it from.  
  
[the King's expression darkens]  
  
You sure you don't want to sit down, sir? There's plenty of room, even with Huan taking up half of it.  
  
[the Hound and he share a grin]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, I think not so.  
  

Beren:  
    
Only think? 'Cause if you're sure, that's one thing, but if you only think you shouldn't because you feel awkward about everything in the past, that's not gonna be fixed by you pretending we're not here, and if you think we have issues with you that we're being too polite to say anything about but you won't ask, it won't go away either by you not saying anything.  
  
[Finarfin gives him a long, level stare]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou kennst ne'er when -- nor dost heed plain sense! -- shouldst cease, I think?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope.  
  
[brief pause]  
  
I'm not just doing it because I feel sorry for you, sir, or because I don't want th-- Finrod, to think we weren't welcoming to you. My parents would be furious with me for not doing right by a relative, if I didn't even make the effort.  
  
[silence -- Finarfin stares at him, frowning]  
  
\--We're -- kin, s--Sire.  
  
[longer pause]  
  
Really. Even if it's just by marriage and by marriage again. That's why they got thrown out of Doriath by your lady's uncle, so it would still be true.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
To what dost thou refer, boy?  
  

Beren:  
    
You know, sir -- when Thingol -- oh wait, you all used to call him something else here, not even Elu -- Elwe? -- he kicked them out of Menegroth -- only just on a temporary basis -- after -- wait, I'm assuming you know where Menegroth is, but that's not necessarily so, is it? Or maybe you would have heard, from gossip? --Would somebody please make me shut up and help?  
  

Fourth Guard: [obliging tone]  
    
All right. [he grabs him and claps a hand over his mouth, effectively gagging him, until Beren elbows him hard in the ribs and there is a brief scuffle which ends when Huan gets up to participate, stepping on people in the way, and they break it up.]  
  

Beren: [to Huan]  
    
Sit! --Sit!  
  
[to the royal Guard]  
  
\--I meant take over, you loon -- Now you all are going to have to suffer through my version of it.  
  
[to Finarfin, who is staring with a completely bemused expression]  
  
What I heard was, and somebody'll correct me if I'm wrong, probably all at once, that the King and -- that is, your kids -- were visiting Tinuviel's family again, which they did kind of a lot, only this time it was because they were visiting their sister too, since she was living with them then, and somehow rumors had gotten around about the Kinslaying in Doriath and Thingol called them on it and it was a big mess and there was a lot of yelling and not as much listening, at least at first, and then even after it got straightened out on how you all weren't involved, her dad was still really furious with them for first off not stopping it, and then for being okay with House Feanor afterwards, and then for keeping it a secret from them.  
  
[thoughtful]  
  
\--Though Tinuviel said her mom had figured out a lot of it on her own, or at least that it was something big they weren't talking about. --Because they were -- are -- related to Thingol since he's their granddad's brother. So he threw them all out for a while, only not th-- your daughter. And he let them come back later. And if you want better information than that, you need to ask someone who was actually there and remembers it\--  
  
[looking around very pointedly at his companions]  
  
\--like certain people here who are letting me flounder around telling it, or else ask my wife. --So if Tinuviel is your kids' cousin because she's related to your wife, that's a direct blood relationship, but she's related to you, right, by marriage, because your in-laws are kin, too, at least the way we consider it back home, and I think it's the same for you, right? At least, I always assumed it was.  
  
[he looks over at the Steward, who nods]  
  
So I'm related to your kids now, by marriage, but that means I'm also related to you. Well, obviously. [ducking a little under Finarfin's expressionless stare]  
  
\--Sorry. --Your Majesty.  
  
[silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
We cannot, so the adage goeth, of our kindred by our own choosing make selection.  
  
[Beren looks down, accepting the cut]  
  
Being ignorant of thy people as of thee, 'twould ne'er hath occurred, to choose so \-- yet of all whom I perforce must name my kin, thou art by no means worst in my esteeming, nor last whom I had chosen, had choice been given me-- Peace; I'd walk a little while, and think upon all that I have heard this day, and likewise seen, and perchance then 'twill suit me to take place with ye, and hear this curious manner of speech, and more curious tales, brought back from afar.  
  
[He turns towards the door again, and is halted by a discreet cough as the Captain tries to get his attention]  
  
\--Aye?  

Captain:  
    
Would you -- that is, should one of us accompany you, sir?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
What have I said, that thou shouldst think to say so?  
  

Captain:  
    
You aren't afraid to walk the Halls alone, my lord?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Is there aught of danger to the living in these Halls? Or wild beast, or storm, or precipice, or folk of violent disposition, the which might work to my harm? Surely were it so, my Lord and Lady should have forewarned -- or say ye nay?  
  
[Beren starts to explain, but is discouraged (though not quite so rowdily) by the Guard beside him]  
  

Warrior:  
    
Not to the living, my lord. But -- most -- few Eldar I think would be at ease. Not even the Lady Amarie was comfortable here, though she hid her fear well.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin: [with a peculiar, thoughtful expression]  
    
Amarie, thou sayest, is eke come hither? By request? Or hers, or his, or other's yet?  
  

Warrior:  
    
I -- we think it is the Lady Nienna's, my lord.  
  
[awkward pause]  
  

Finarfin: [calmly]  
    
Were the Song known, none should e'er know surprise. Peace, I'll not yield to speculation, nor ask of thee the same. --For what, then, dost think I fear? Or tell the old tales of the dark far past before the Crossing of the Sea the truth, of unquiet dead that steal souls of a night, or lure with deadly pity? Would ye guard me then, that none might dispossess?   
  

Captain:  
    
No, sir, it can't be done here. Lord Namo wouldn't have it.  
  

Finarfin: [with a touch of pride -- he is, after all a King]  
    
Think ye, then, that I do fear where is no ground beneath?  
  
[they are somewhat abashed]  
  

Beren:  
    
I think the only thing you're afraid of is doing something wrong. --Sire.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou hast taken the lead.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Again: hast thou not marked it? --Nor ye?  
  
[the Ten and Beren look at each other uncertainly]  
  
This child speaketh as were a lord among ye, nor ye to take affront, that he should speak for all, nor claim such precedence, even as there is no contending betwixt thee and thee\--  
  
[to the Steward and the Captain respectively]  
  
\--that share authority as 'twere a cup at banquet without strife. Are ye come to Vanyar then, in death, or hath this change earlier nascence yet?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Er -- Beren is a lord, milord. He hasn't got a place anymore, but -- none of us do either, really.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
He is a child \-- not even old enow to wed, far less to rule over many.  
  

Captain:  
    
Not by their years, sir.  
  

Steward: [speaking up at last, in an out-of-duty way]  
    
Of thy brother's following, the mortal House of Marach has held his chief fortress in office over both their own folk and ours, and two lords of Men -- to my knowing not a third -- have died in its defense, Galdor son of Hador, and his father before him in the Sudden Flame, who was a most valiant warrior, and a skilled commander as well as faithful to his liege lord, and not uncivil in his mastery.  
  
[pause]  
  
\--Nor is their skill but in violence, as some aver: the sons and daughters of the Secondborn are apt to learning, and possess even wisdom no less than discernment, for all their brevity, nor are their songs lacking in all beauty.  
  

Finarfin: [very dry]  
    
That is most high praise, from thee.  
  

Captain: [slipping from addressing Finarfin to the Steward to Beren by turns very confusingly]  
  
    
But it's more complicated, even, than that with regards to young Barahirion here, because he is -- or was, depending on how you look at it, and if you ask your eldest, and what mood you catch him in -- a liege lord to the King in his own right, and I think that the Princes are cheating there, claiming authority over him, because they predeceased Barahir, so I don't see how they can claim that Beren ever owed them allegiance himself, except when he was simply part of the hearth-guard of Beor, but certainly not as Lord of Dorthonion--  
  
[turning back to Finarfin]  
  
\--and thus no less truly a peer of the realm, though admittedly a junior one on several counts, and then proved himself worthy again and in his own right by demonstrating discretion, restraint, and being able to follow orders, which I'm sure you'll appreciate, sir -- even when said orders turned out not to be well-advised, and if you bring up the question of whose fault it is one more time I'll dunk you myself -- and now he's practically family even before we realized that he was family, so to speak. So--  
  
[raising his hands]  
  
\--if he wants to speak for the rest of us now, instead of hiding behind us having panic attacks and episodes of agoraphobia and unworthiness, that's quite all right. If we disagree -- we'll say so, believe me.  
  

Finarfin: [amused despite himself]  
    
'Tis like a conflagration, this manner of speech -- the spark of it hath caught in thee as well.  
  
[glancing around at them]  
  
The War hath changéd ye, nor for all the worst. Strange, belike, but not more cruel nor--  
  
[he looks up at the water sculpture]  
  
\--unvaluing of beauty nor of graciousness, for all the bluntness of thy thought. --As some have feared it should.  
  
[almost smiling]  
  
\--Passing strange, that rebellion should return ye trained to obedience even as to command! --Lord Edrahil.  
  
[this first instance of being addressed as an adult in his own right catches the Steward by surprise]  
  
Will't please thee walk with me, and converse upon sundry matters, and perchance it may be to advise?  
  

Steward:   
    
No, my lord. --But I'll do it all the same.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I did but ask, sir -- not ordered thee.  
  

Steward:  
    
And I but answered: it will not please me, and I will do it. I cannot answer other, save to refuse either word or compliance.  
  
[Finarfin starts to say something, then checks and nods. Shrewdly:]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy crest hath fallen since last we held converse.  
  

Steward:  
    
True.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
For what the cause?  
  
[with great reluctance, clearly debating silence, the other replies:]  
  

Steward:  
    
I…have learned that she who bore the choice-name Sea-mew and was your lady's handmaiden, -- and that I did most poorly love -- was among the Kinslain these long years, that I had deemed had long forgotten me with a better.  
  

Finarfin: [surprised]  
    
Thou didst not ken?  
  

Steward:  
    
How should I, sir?  
  
[Finarfin looks at him, puzzled]  
  
These Halls are large and there are many here. Give me a little to recover my composure, and I shall overtake you.  
  

Finarfin:   
    
Shall't have no trouble then, for all its largeness?  
  

Steward:  
    
Most assuredly not, for two reasons -- the first that you being complete and undiminished even by your sorrows, do shine like a cresset on hilltop, and no more trouble to find than such a beacon -- the second, that does one know that one whom one seeks is present, it is much lighter work to find that one.  
  
[the King frowns]  
  
But do not think thus to find the King your father, sir, nor even your elder brothers, for none may be found saving only that he -- or she -- does choose so.  
  

Finarfin: [clearly unsettled]  
    
Doth the truth of these walls extend so far as to grant vision of one's inmost heart, that nothing be concealéd, nor unsaid, nor spoken?  
  
[the Steward shakes his head]  
  

Steward:  
    
In life, in the eastern lands, I stood upon your son's right hand in all things. I know you thus -- beyond the knowledge of the past Outside, when all of us were other, and stood in wise far different to each other -- through my understanding of him, and doubtless imperfect for that double remove; yet from my words, and your return, I guess that those two mirrors have not distorted past all truth. --I'll come to find you anon, my lord, I pledge: and then you may bespeak me as you will, and ask, and I shall endeavor to answer in such wise as you shall find comprehensible, nor give offense.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I would not increase the burden of thy sorrows, still.  
  

Steward: [with a glint of his usual self]  
    
Nor I yours, -- who can say? Perchance we may even succeed at that, my lord.  
  
[with a faint smile Finarfin gives him a polite, acknowledging nod, and another generally to the rest of the company, and goes out through the archway]  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
He did say that he didn't mind so much having me for part of his family, didn't he? Not just that there were relatives he hated worse.  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
The exactness of the phrasing was ambivalent: either might have been meant by the specific words employed. But I too believe you have the right of it. --He is very like our lord.  
  
[he gestures for the flask, and his colleague passes it over, but holds onto it long enough that he has to look up and meet his gaze]  
  

Captain:  
    
Are you going to be up to this? Is dealing with him, now, a good idea?  
  

Steward:  
    
It will, most like, forestall the brunt of his remorse from falling on the King, and equally his long-held wrath, and at a time when our lord can least withstand either nor spare thought to defend from it. It is my task, and my place. But my strength is not yet equal to my resolve.  
  

Captain:  
    
Is there anything I can do to help?  
  

Steward:  
    
\--As, for example, standing by to watch a duel of words, where the aim of it is seemingly to lose?  
  
[they share a wry smile]  
  
It will -- disengage my mind from other troubles.  
  

Captain: [earnest]  
    
I don't think it's as hopeless as all that for you two. It's going to take work, but I feel sure she'll give you another chance.  
  

Steward:  
    
Yes, but you would, being an unreasonable optimist.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well -- I've been right so far, have I not?  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
I can almost not believe you said that -- but I've known you too long.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
\--Ware!  
  

Captain:  
    
I mean, it seemed the worst luck that Lady Amarie wouldn't hear a word from Himself, but look what came of it -- we're still here to help Beren and the Princess now that they need it. And--  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
\--Sir--  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, lad, I know.  
  
[Aegnor returns, alone, quite composed (at least apparently) and not fazed by the unfriendly and wary looks directed towards him. As he comes towards their group--]  
  
Our liege lord has not returned yet, I'm afraid.  
  
[he puts a slight emphasis on "Our" not unnoticed by the Prince.]  
  

Aegnor: [superior tone]  
    
On the not-unlikely chance that he's taken off again and is haring about somewhere as usual, Angrod is looking for him throughout the levels instead. --Which I see was a correct assumption. I'll stay here and wait for him, then.  
  

Captain:  
    
I don't recommend that, Highness.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Why? Have you claimed this Hall in your own right, then? Going to stake out a realm of your own now, are you?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, it's simply that I doubt you can keep a civil tongue.  
  

Aegnor: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
"Fly pride, quoth the peacock"--!  
  
[he does not say a word towards Beren, nor the rest of the Ten, but strolls a short distance off and settles down where Finrod had been playing, taking up the harp that the Steward had manifested earlier.  
Looking it over critically:]  
  
The design of this thing is so squat and ungainly, I've never understood how you could bear to be seen with such a clumsy piece of work, let alone claim the design of it for yourself!  
  

Steward: [still sounding tired]  
    
It stands travel better, and the breadth of the soundbox prevents it from toppling when there is not secure and level place for it, as is often the case when journeying, nor requires additional carry of a stand.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
At the sacrifice of tonal quality, no doubt.  
  

Steward: [shortly]  
    
The dimensions of the chamber are calculated to compensate for the lack of height.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
"Calculated"--  
  
[he snorts and flicks at one of the strings contemptuously]  
  
Such an approach, I guess, is only to be expected, from one who has not a drop of Teler blood or intuition--!  
  

Third Guard: [polite but firm]  
    
Strictly speaking, your Highness, none of us have any blood, whether Teler, Noldor, or Vanyar -- not even yourself.  
  
[Aegnor does not answer, only fiddles with the tuning, a patronizing smile on his face]  
  

Beren: [loyally]  
    
I thought it sounded fine, Sir. I couldn't tell any difference between it and the Ki-- and Finrod's.   
  
[the Prince gives him a sharp, sidelong Look at that]  
  

Aegnor: [aside]  
    
Yes, well, you wouldn't, would you?  
  
[the Captain catches the eye of both Rangers in turn and makes a covert set of hand-signals. Separately, throughout the following conversation, they get up and go over to the mural as if critiquing it. To Beren, though addressing him obliquely, not looking at him:]  
  
Though I suppose that you cannot help that.  
  
[pause]  
  
You do not answer, Beoring?  
  

Beren:  
    
Not to you.  
  

Aegnor: [setting aside the harp and leaning forward as he gets down to business]  
    
You subscribe, then, to my eldest brother's belief that all are equal in death, then? Or are you merely being insolent?  
  

Beren:  
    
Neither. My father was killed six years after the Battle. I was only ever the King's vassal. --Directly, I mean.  
  

Aegnor: [shrugging]  
    
There is of course mere common courtesy, when another addresses one. --What became of the mithril hauberk and arms I gave to your great-grandfather Boromir? That gear was pretty nearly priceless.  
  

Beren: [tersely]  
    
Lost it.  
  

Aegnor: [venomously pleasant]  
    
You lost everything that was entrusted to your care, didn't you?  
  
[Beren does not respond]  
  
The lands themselves -- well, that's understandable, you couldn't exactly do anything about being outnumbered. And I can understand why your people would have left when you could no longer take care of them as well. Property, even your life -- for none of that can you justly be held accountable for, in the end. --Only for your honor.  
  
[he looks up, then, at the still-silent Beren, ignoring the dark expressions of the Ten]  
  
None of your House would have behaved as you did. Such a disgrace to the memory of Bregolas, of Balan himself -- to lose the life of the King whose life your own was sworn to protect: even to accept his assistance, when the price of it was merely disgrace and dethronement, should have been beneath you.  
  

Beren: [pushed past self-control]  
    
I couldn't stop him! There was nothing I could do--  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What would your father say to that? Surely he never uttered those words.  
  
[strangely, Beren gives him a faint smile, not changing as the Prince continues:]  
  
Surely Barahir would say, indeed, that you should have fallen on your sword first, before accepting such a boon.  
  
[long, tense silence among the Ten, Huan whimpers -- and Beren keeps giving Aegnor that odd smile]  
  

Beren:  
    
I may be remembering this all wrong, but I thought it was explained to me that you and Orodreth and Angrod were pretty good friends with your cousins and used to spend a lot of time with them, and that's why you set up your holdings in the East so close to the Pass, and why he was with them at Sun-Return, and why they moved in with him and Finrod when the Leaguer broke.  
  
[with an acknowledging look towards the Steward]  
  
I'm sure it was more complicated than just family, but even with there not being all that many places to go, after the Sudden Flame, the thing I'm wondering is, if maybe you feel a bit guilty, since maybe you all being so tight with that crew had something to do with Finrod giving them such a warm welcome, if it was partly for your sake. --Just going on how things were in Dorthonion after it started getting bad, and the way people react, how it isn't all just what's the most reasonable thing to do.  
  
[silence]  
  

Steward:  
    
A most interesting question. --Is that the case, I wonder?  
  

Aegnor: [glowering]  
    
I do not choose to answer your unworthy speculations.  
  
[the Captain lifts his hand as if to interject, then lowers it.]  
  

Steward:  
    
I believe that you have quite well, your Highness.  
  
[In the background, the attentive Rangers swing up via the high-relief "forest" onto the stones forming the ascenders of the waterfall and edge over the top of it]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Still defending him?  
  
[shaking his head, scoffing:]  
No doubt you'll say that it was not so bad, after all, since it happened in a noble cause, for the sake of a greater good.  
  
[Beren's expression goes grim -- the Soldier puts a hand on his arm, reassurance as much as restraint]  
  

Steward: [thoughtful]  
    
No, I should never say that. It was far worse than I could ever have conceived of, worse than the Ice, worse than the Bragollach, singly or together.  
  
[this gives Aegnor pause, but only for a moment before he comes back:]  
  

Aegnor: [furious]  
    
Then he, at least, should show a trifling amount of reverence -- at least \--  
  
[the Captain rises to his feet]  
  
\--rather than taking for granted and without gratitude the continued generosity that's been shown him.  
  
[with enough nonchalance to convey a distinct menace, the Captain walks slowly over to where Aegnor is sitting, rests his foot on a boulder just short of him, and leans over him, smiling all the while and keeping his eyes steadily on the Prince's]  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Enough.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What, are you going to challenge me at last, then?  
  
[the other shakes his head, still holding his stare]  
  

Captain:  
    
I will not fight you, sir.  
  
[pause -- smiling wickedly:]  
  
I've no need to, you see.  
  
[his associates ambush the Prince from above-and-behind and drag him backwards to the edge, whence they toss him in with extreme enthusiasm. Aegnor's attempts to recover dignity and land are not aided by Huan's deciding that this looks like a fine idea and leaping in with him. After a couple of tries he manages to climb out and stands there looking intensely disgruntled, sopping, and enough humiliated on several levels not to try to retaliate]  
  

Aegnor: [glaring at the Steward]  
    
Is this the consequence you were hinting so darkly about?  
  

Steward: [serious]  
    
Evidently so. One consequence, at least. There could be others too, I suppose.  
  
[As Aegnor starts to say something else, Huan climbs out and shakes vigorously, splashing everyone, who react with good-natured annoyance -- but coincidentally standing right next to Finrod's brother. It couldn't be on purpose, after all...]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Huan!? What's wrong with you, dog?  
  

Beren: [offhand]  
    
That's what Celegorm wondered, too.  
  
[Aegnor turns a furious Look on him, getting a raised eyebrow back at him]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
You--  
  

Ranger: [interrupting, to the Captain]  
    
\--Might we again, sir?  
  
[he gets the glare instead; his commander looks over to his senior colleague for confirmation]  
  

Steward: [shrugs, smiling a little]  
    
It doesn't matter to me either way: I'm feeling much heartened already.  
  
[Aegnor incautiously puts a hand on his sword-hilt -- and is shoved back in with the additional help of a possibly-unnecessary boot behind the ankles to prevent him from getting his balance, by the other Rangers. Huan follows suit again voluntarily.]  
  

Ranger: [to Beren, as Aegnor crawls out onto the rocks again, very bedraggled]  
  
    
You know, you're right: it is both fun, and funny. In a very curious and primitive sort of way, of course.  
  

Beren: [solemnly]  
    
Of course, you're really supposed to do it to your own relatives, not your liege lord's family. Or to your friends. And remember, you have to watch out on account of it usually escalates into retaliation.  
  
[looking consideringly at Aegnor]  
  
Only I don't think you really have to worry because first off, he's worried about his dignity and secondly, you've got him way outnumbered if you count everybody, plus Huan, which goes back to the first point.  
  

Ranger:  
    
You should have helped, then it would have been all right and proper.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Oh, I doubt he's gonna like the fact that I'm kin now any more than that we decided he wasn't actually in charge of me. Though I do think Celegorm's worse, all around, than me.  
  
[he and Aegnor lock stares, much more serious this time.]   
  

Steward: [earnestly]  
    
My lord, you provoke him much, and some might say needlessly.  
  

Beren: [quiet and slow, like someone reporting on distant troop movements]  
    
I know, but…we've got the truth lying here between us like a hot coal, and…he can either pick it up and deal with it, which is going to hurt, or try to kick it away by walking off or picking another fight. I'm betting…that he's going to leave it there and walk off again. Given the fact that the last couple fights weren't too satisfying…  
  
[Aegnor stands there looking at him, dripping and frustrated, not saying anything, for a long moment. (Note: sfx -- the drops do not land on the floor, but vanish continually as they fall, unless (as with Huan shaking himself off) they strike another spirit: the Platonic Form of Water doesn't leave puddles.) Abruptly he turns and walks evenly away with as much dignity as he can pull together. To his chagrin and annoyance the Captain accompanies him, and follows him to the door]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Are you so petty in your triumphs, then, that you must make them last so long?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, sir, I was wondering if you'd learned anything from this, and if we should be prepared to do it again -- if not you, then Angrod in his turn.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Fear not, I'll tell him you're mad and violent when I speak to Finrod about this.  
  

Captain:  
    
Good. Since the Beoring has no hard feelings towards you, I'll give you a word of advice, then: you may be deceived thinking you discern the King your brother, though perchance not; but Lord Beren at first mistook the King your father for Felagund instead. You might warn him about that, as well as our diversions here.  
  
[Aegnor gives him a stricken look]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
F -- my father is here?  
  

Captain:  
    
And in good health, though not spirits.  
  
[pause]  
  
The Powers requested him to speak with the Lady your cousin, and he accepted the task. But her words unsettled him too much to go on, and so he came back here for a while -- until we unsettled him too much in turn.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What -- did he say about me?  
  

Captain:  
    
Nothing, Highness, nothing at all.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What did you talk about, then?  
  

Captain:  
    
Of my treason, and its consequences, the ones past, present, and it may be to come.  
  
[pause]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
He said nothing about me whatsoever?  
  

Captain:  
    
Not to me, my lord. He might perhaps to Lord Beren -- they spoke for a brief while apart -- but you would have to ask him.  
  
[nodding towards the mortal -- Aegnor gives him a glare]  
  
But I don't think it very likely. I gather the substance of their conversation was…similar to yours, but with differences.  
  
[another, worse glare]  
  
Well, I just don't know, your Highness. I wasn't present, and they've not told me, and you've indicated extreme dislike for conjecture, so I shan't venture to do so. Sorry, but there you have it.  
  
[pause -- the Prince does not leave, and the Captain relents.]  
  
I think your father is far too troubled at the moment by discovering the same facts concerning our mutual lord's death that so much aggrieved you twain, to think on your long-held resolution, that is not news nor new grief to him -- I believe the information has been nearly as great a blow to him as your words, and the ones which you did not say, were to the Beoring, who nearly faded from this Circle before we might convince him that no fault in it was his, no more than part. --Now do you understand why we shall not permit you to do so again, even if you judge us mad to name him yet friend?  
  
[they match stares for a long moment -- Aegnor tosses his head at last]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Only now you said you would not speculate.  
  

Captain: [shrugging]  
    
I didn't expect you to thank me for it, my lord.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
That's as well then, milord -- I'd not have you disappointed.  
  
[with that retort he turns to go -- and barely avoids a collision with Nienna's Apprentice, entering, due as much to the agile recoil of the later as to his own attempts to sidestep. The Apprentice stares at him with astonishment -- the Prince gives him a savage Look and vanishes, leaving the other quite bewildered.]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
That was your lord's brother.  
  
[the Captain nods]  
  
He was very wet.  
  

Captain:  
    
He insulted the Lord of Dorthonion, again. --I hope you weren't thinking of doing so?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Believe me, it had not even crossed my mind. --Nor will it, I promise.  
  
[he shakes his head, looking over his shoulder into the corridor]  
  

Captain:  
    
So have you anything useful for me?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- er, I hope so. Nothing has been resolved or decided, except that your friend's lady is one of the most stubborn souls ever to have been born, and the only development has been that far from discouraging her romantic illusions -- that isn't my wording, please don't be offended -- Nerdanel has rather taken her part and argued her case for her. Up until the discussion…got off the trail onto another course, rather, and she and the Hunter started trying to convince my Master's family to let them decorate the Halls with tree-toads.  
  

Captain: [startled]  
    
Tree-toads!?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Carved from chalcedony with garnet eyes. --It's a longish story and not very relevant, which is what Lord Namo was pointing out. Unless you want me to go through it?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, that's right. --Hm. And your Master hasn't turned up yet either, has she? Very interesting. Has Lady Yavanna returned?  
  

Apprentice: [shaking his head]  
    
Nor her sister. The only people left now are Lord Namo and Lady Vaire, Lord Orome and Lord Aule, and Lord Irmo. And Luthien, of course. Oh, and Nerdanel -- but I already said that -- and Curumo -- that's Lord Aule's principal aide, he's like me, only -- of a different -- kindred. And not -- pretending to be anything else--  
  
[aside]  
  
\--and failing miserably at it!  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--Perhaps you know whom I'm talking of?  
  

Captain:  
    
I didn't know him personally back in the Day, but the brief encounter I observed earlier between him and my master gave me the distinct impression that he's a bit conceited and given to causing trouble if he can get away with it. Of course you'll no doubt say that I say it as shouldn't, as the saying goes.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No, you're spot-in -- spot-on? -- from target-shooting, correct? But not the kind of trouble you lot are always making.  
  
[glum]  
  
He just -- says things -- sometimes, clever things, and one looks such a fool--  
  
[guilty]  
  
\--You really should not be commenting on nor criticizing your elders and superiors, don't you think?  
  
[to his annoyance, the Captain struggles not to laugh out loud]  
  
\--What?  
  

Captain:  
    
Sweet Cuivienen, how do you think I got this job? --The intelligence part? That's what I did for amusement, watch people and imitate them at gatherings. It took Himself to show me what use was in it, even before the Rebellion and the founding of the Kingdom -- how the things I noticed were often more than simple mannerisms, and not infrequently something that the individuals themselves were unaware of, and how much less guarded the lordly folk were about the cheerful fellow who only talked about bows and hounds and hawks and points, than about each other. Very useful to Lord Finarfin, when the rest of House Finwe was intriguing like mad.  
  

Apprentice: [snippy]  
    
Still, I don't expect you ever -- parodied him, or his family!  
  

Captain: [bemused]  
    
Why?  
  
[pause]  
  
I repeat, how do you think I earned this responsibility?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And…he didn't mind?  
  

Captain: [frowns]  
    
Well, I'd not say that. He rather minded falling off his horse for laughing, but not the imitation. Not as much as his sister did -- she wouldn't speak to me for a whole day, which got tiresome with her having to ask my sister to ask me whatever it was she wanted to know, though when I started doing it back she decided it was a bit funny and left off for the rest of the hunt. Which was just as well. --I presume you're speaking of Finrod Felagund, and not Lord Finarfin? He thought it a bit childish, but harmless. --Little did he know! But little did we all, then.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You're trying to put me at ease and teach me something at the same time, aren't you?  
  

Captain: [approving]  
    
Very clever you are. --Can you tell me what?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I'd guess -- something about not assuming things about people one hasn't a long acquaintance with; something about paying attention to the things and persons one doesn't usually pay attention to, something about not being being too proud to laugh at one's self. --And how to put another at ease -- and off-guard -- in a conversation.  
  

Captain:  
    
All that just from that! Amazing. --But what I'd prefer you to be learning is, what's going on at the Council.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh, I am.  
  

Captain:  
    
But you're here, not there, unless you've some other abilities beyond Elven ken to employ.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, no -- yes -- both, in a manner of speaking: I have friends keeping track of it and reporting to me.  
  

Captain: [flatly]  
    
You've involved others in this?  
  

Apprentice: [increasingly anxious]  
    
I just -- delegated, too.  
  

Captain:  
    
Friends -- on the staff, here.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Is that wrong? You -- didn't--  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
No, I'll not second-guess you. I didn't tell you how to do it, nor set conditions. It would be ill of me to meddle now, when we chose you for confidence in your abilities.   
  
[sighs again, and starts back towards the waterfall, the Apprentice tagging along with a worried look]  
  
I trust your friends are as trustworthy as discreet -- and if they're not, there's naught I can do concerning it now.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I'm sorry--  
  

Captain:  
    
Why? You haven't failed yet.  
  
[as the Apprentice is mulling this over, frowning, they come up to the rest of the group beside the falls]  
  

Ranger:   
    
Yes, but if you take the easy route you're practically in Thargelion! Then you've got to cross all that distance again, and you've nearly doubled your travel time. Much better to take the shortcut through the cleft at Aglon.  
  

Beren: [embarrassed, trying to pretend to be angry instead of grinning]  
    
\--Would you just shut up about that?  
  

Captain:  
    
You're not giving poor Barahirion a hard time, are you?  
  

Ranger:  
    
But you do it, Sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but I'm allowed. "Rank hath its privilege" and so on.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
So, which route do you think was the better before the War, the one through the mountain pass at Aglon, or the long way around across the rolling countryside in the east?  
  

Beren: [to the world at large]  
    
I hate my life.  
  

Captain: [settling down on the ledge and reclaiming his flask]  
    
Well, that's all right, then -- cheer up, you haven't got it any more.  
  
[the Apprentice gives him a shocked look]  
  

Both Rangers: [outraged]  
    
Sir!!!  
  
[Beren laughs -- and casually reaches over to shove the Captain playfully on the shoulder, coincidentally as he's just about to take a drink]  
  

Captain: [grimacing and shaking his hand]  
    
Seems as though someone isn't feeling guilty for having been killed any more. --If that had been the real thing you'd be in trouble for wasting it, whelp. And not just the usual background level of trouble, either.  
  
[to the Apprentice, who is slightly agog]  
  
Was there more that you've still to say? Or did you need something?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Actually -- you see, I was wondering -- if you're allowed, that is --  
  

Captain:  
    
It's a good thing I'm patient, isn't it--  
  

Apprentice: [abruptly, distracted]  
    
\--Ah, what was it that you were angry about, Lord Beren?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh--  
  
[struggling not to grin again]  
  
Not really. --Nothing.  
  

Ranger:  
    
It's because we found out that he gets flustered over perfectly ordinary words. Like "mountain pass." Or "rolling meadow."  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Why on Arda--?  
  
[Beren looks up at the ceiling and sighs]  
  

Ranger: [serious]  
    
Because of the way you say them in the High Speech.  
  

Second Guard: [just as seriously]  
    
Or what the same expressions are used to mean.  
  

Apprentice: [puzzled]  
    
But what's wrong with saying "the bosom of the earth"--? Or "cleavage," for that matter?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
That's what we've been trying to find out. He just gets more and more speechless.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I don't think one can, actually -- shouldn't you say, "less and less speechful" -- hm, that doesn't sound very well either, does it…?  
  
[to Beren]  
  
Do you think you could explain the reason for such reactions to simple concepts? I don't know all that much about Secondborn customs, you see, and I find them fascinating, but I so rarely get the chance to speak to mortal shades, and I hardly know what to ask or where to begin.  
  

Beren:  
    
You guys are going to pay for this. --Um, no, sir, I really don't right now.  
  
[sudden inspiration]  
  
You should really talk to His Majesty -- my wife's cousin, that is, and ask Finrod. He's the language expert, after all -- Elvish and human.  
  
[Touché -- the Apprentice looks around at their expressions, knowing there's a joke going on that he's missing. Before he can ask further, Huan, who has been clambering about on rocks like a mountain goat or a puppy, suddenly bounds down and goes running off with ears trailing like a mad thing into the distant shadows of the Hall, and then back again -- and then does it over again]  
  

Apprentice: [shaking his head, looking after the Hound]  
    
Why is he doing that?  
  

Beren:  
    
'Cause he's wet.  
  
[the Apprentice looks at him doubtfully]  
  
And he's a dog.  
  
[at the continued dubious Look]  
  
Dogs do that sometimes, is all. I guess you don't have any, huh?  
  

Apprentice: [drawing himself up]  
    
I am familiar with dogs, milord. I -- am just uncertain as to whether you're aware who Huan is.  
  

Beren: [mischievously innocent]  
    
He's our hound. He used to belong to my wife's cousin, and before that Celegorm got him from Orome himself. He's the Lord of Dogs.  
  
[Nienna's student sighs a little]  
  
\--And he's like you. Immortal. Or like Tinuviel's mom. Only different, I guess.  
  
[the Apprentice recovering from his start, gives a slightly wounded look to the Ten]  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren figured you out all on his own. Perception, not deduction, though.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh.  
  
[looking around at them, uncertainly]  
  
Can I rely on you…not to, er, what was that phrase you used?  

Captain:  
    
Blow your cover, as if you were a pheasant pretending to be a thicket. --We're safe, but I  
can't say the same of anyone else who might be here.  
  
[glancing around meaningfully]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh, we're alone.  
  

Captain:  
    
Are you sure? We thought there might be company earlier, and there has been at various times, in various states of presence.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No, I'm certain.  
  

Beren: [very curious]  
    
You can see if anyone's here who's vanished?  
  

Apprentice: [a touch patronizing]  
    
"See" is not the proper word, given that it is a perception or apprehension of the Unseen.  
  
[Beren looks puzzled, and gestures to get the Steward's attention]  
  

Beren:  
    
Am I imagining it, or isn't "perceive" like "grab ahold of" --?  
  

Steward:  
    
There is indeed a common root.  
  

Beren: [to the Apprentice]  
    
So why's that make more sense, when you're not actually touching them, than for me to say "see"?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah.  
  
[pause. Changing the subject:]  
  
\--Still, you didn't come up with a real explanation of your answer as to why he's dashing about like a dragonfly up and down the room.  
  

Beren:  
    
I already said. Because he's a dog, and dogs do that. Even Immortal ones. Also in the new snow, they run like crazy back and forth. Sometimes he chases his tail. In the woods he'd find fallen branches and drag them around, only they were the size of small logs, and we joked that he was a firewood-hound too.  
  
[frowning]  
  
We had a pony that used to do that with big sticks, too. Never figured out why.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And that's got what to do with Huan?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nothing. Except they were doing the same thing, and almost the same size.  
  
[the Apprentice frowns -- and then looks suddenly worried]   
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm -- you wouldn't say I was rude, would you?  
  

Beren: [confused]  
    
Uh -- considering I've only talked to you what, three times maybe? that I know of, and I never heard anything about you until today -- whatever -- and that's hardly anything at all, I really am not the one to ask.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No, I meant -- to you. Just now.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
No. A little sarcastic, maybe, but not really rude.  
  
[as Nienna's student looks relieved]  
  
\--Why?  
  

Apprentice: [glancing sidelong at the Captain]  
    
I -- ah -- well, I haven't any wish to follow Aegnor's lead, let's say.  
  

Beren:  
    
Well. You haven't told me I should've killed myself, let alone twice yet, so you've got a long way to go to catch up, if that's any reassurance.  
  

Apprentice: [startled, increasingly, and dismayed]  
    
Oh. --Oh.  
  
[looks around, trying to ascertain if this is a joke.]  
  
I -- really wish my Master  
were about. And I were home.  
  

Captain: [slyly]  
    
On Taniquetil, I presume?  
  
[this does not make his victim any happier]  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah -- could you tell me what I did wrong? How you -- figured it out? Please?  
  
[He sits down, a little uncertainly, socially awkward among the Ten, on a rock across from the Captain. Huan comes back and flops down not far, looking at the Apprentice and grinning.]  
  

Captain:  
    
You didn't do anything wrong.  
  
[pause -- the Apprentice looks exasperated]  
  
Not any one thing.  
The things that you did -- or didn't -- have almost certainly not been noticed by anyone else. Most people don't, after all, if it doesn't concern them directly. Now, what I imagine you've been doing -- and correct me if we're wrong -- is that you vary your persona depending on whom you're among. I expect you're Vanyar most of the time, except on Taniquetil, since you'd have the most anonymity that way, whether in Tirion or on the seacoast, -- or in here. I also expect that you're Teler when you're in Valmar?  
  
[the Apprentice nods, his expression mixed between chagrin and admiration]  
  
Again, you'd be rare enough,  
wherever you went, to be something of a curiosity, but so long as you have a decent reason for being there -- like being a servant of Lady Nia's, that's usually acceptable -- that rarity would mean that no one would be able, or likely so, to call you on it. And the curiosity -- assuming that firstly people here haven't changed that much, and secondly you don't do anything too eccentric--  
  
[his erstwhile adversary grimaces slightly]  
  
\--is bound to fade very quickly as people do have for the most part their own lives and affairs to manage, even here. --In a manner of speaking, of course. A good friend of mine back home in the Old Country excels at that, fitting in. But--  
  
[he pauses until the Apprentice can't take it any longer; the Youngest Ranger starts a bit, and looks thoughtful]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But what?!  
  

Captain: [teasing]  
    
Patience, lad, patience--  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp bark]  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, all right. Due to a circumstance quite beyond your control, there is now someone here who is familiar with the Vanyar enough to mark such small discrepancies in your stories that others might not even notice, and attentive enough to matters of culture and diplomacy to worry about them. To wit, Finrod grandson of Indis, betrothed of Amarie, and also a certain number of those who were formerly of Finarfin's House, such as myself. --Not that the rest of us aren't good at spotting details, either, though not necessarily knowing the significance of them. But those remarks and reported comments helped build the mosaic over time.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But what were they? There must have been some specific things!  
  

Captain:  
    
Lack of specifics, actually. Too vague on the details of what family you were related to, who were your kin, what was your House, all a very large part of it. The fact that none of us knew you we discounted at first, on the assumption that you must have been born after the Rebellion.  
  

Steward:  
    
And yet -- though such only could explain -- to counter that, ever the slight recoil, the lifted brow, the secretive smile whenever any addressed you as "young."  
  

Apprentice: [crestfallen]  
    
So it was me.  
  



	32. Scene IV.viii - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  

Steward:  
    
Few would have marked your responses -- nor made much of them: both slight, and not inappropriate as annoyance from one impatient of being dismissed for his youth. Only in the combination, and in consideration with other things, and observed consistently over time -- and, I venture to say, only because I was watching you. One does that, when one must report how a message is received: the mere words themselves being useless without the setting, as a stone cannot be worn without its fixture.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Hm. So what else was it?  
  

Soldier: [to the Captain]  
    
The children, sir--  
  
[the Captain nods]  
  

Captain:  
    
That was another thing that was marked, by us, how you conducted yourself laboring in the Hall of Play.  
  

Apprentice: [anxious]  
    
Am I not sufficiently well-disposed towards them?  
  

Captain:  
    
Not at all -- you were too good. Even parents sometimes find the whims of their offspring to grow tiresome, as you'd know if you'd ever been either. But your patience had a sort of fascinated wonder about it, as if you were a loremaster studying some strange new phenomenon, or a traveller come to a place where the wild birds settle for winter, overwhelmed with bounty and hardly to be pried away from watching, when most people would have gone off with a headache, or at least requested a little more quiet, less frisking about, long since.  
  

Beren: [startled]  
    
There are children here--?  
  
[the others look at him, and his dismayed expression turns to bitter realization]  
  
Of course -- I -- didn't think--  
  

Huan: [pawing over at his foot]  
    
[thin whine]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Not so many, now. --And they do not stay long, usually.  
  
[Beren sighs, and nods after a moment. Curiously:]  
  
\--You sorrow for those you've never met.  
  

Beren:  
    
Don't you?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes, but -- you -- your people -- aren't like us--  
  

Second Guard: [aside]  
    
Which "us" do you mean?  
  

Beren: [intense]  
    
\--Aren't we?  
  

Captain: [breaking in]  
    
So after a while we started paying closer attention, after Himself pointed out that you never actually said "Ingwe" or "Valmar" when you were speaking of your King sending you to the Lady, and that everyone just assumed that was who you meant, when you spoke of your lord on Taniquetil. Things that startle you, things that annoy you -- you seem to find it very annoying to have to go up one hallway and down another to get to a place that's physically adjacent but not connected by a doorway, for example -- and things that delight you. Such as very small people who talk nonstop, for another. --Does that help you? We could spend a lot longer going into greater detail, but I thought you had things you were supposed to be doing for Lady Vaire.  
  
[the Apprentice nods, looking a bit piqued again -- then starts and looks much more dismayed]  
  
What's wrong, lad?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I just realized something. --Well, not just, but I've been too busy to do anything about it.  
  

Captain:  
    
And?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I didn't win.  
  

Captain:  
    
And?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Not really. You let me win.  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought we'd established that already.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And -- we didn't finish.  
  

Captain:  
    
Only just realized that?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- I hadn't thought about what it meant! You could have demolished me, you were pushing me hard before you started giving me openings, and -- and -- I don't have a chance!  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, you've got a chance, all right. Blind luck and random factors play a great part in these things. Someone might do something to distract me, or say something, or I might forget about a step in the Hall and trip, you never know. You could luck out, as they say back home.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger reaches over and pokes the nearest of his companions hard in the arm, but his superior does not notice]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But unless something happens, unpredictably, like that, your friends will "bet" on you, and they'll win.  
  
[the Captain shrugs]  
  
I thought I was free, once I did this job, and instead I have to look forward to -- to -- what would happen if you'd actually landed a blow?  
  

Captain:  
    
How should I know?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
! ? !  
  

Captain:  
    
I gather that you've been rehearsing and studying with other -- members of your family, from the level of skill you displayed, what happens when you connect with each other?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm…  
  

Captain:  
    
Does it hurt? Do the effects last? Simple questions, I'd think,   
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, yes, but it's -- different. There's a lot more -- noise and light, for one thing.  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah. You're not fighting in this form, then.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Not -- not exactly.  
  

Captain:  
    
So you're cheating.  
  

Apprentice: [sullen]   
    
I suppose you could call it that.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well --  
  
[setting his left hand on the hilt of his sword]  
  
Only one way to find out--  
  
[in a quick gesture he draws it left-handed, in a second move flips it up into the air, catching it to heft it correctly -- and sweeps it over to swat the flat of the blade hard against the side of the Apprentice's neck. With a strangled yell the "Vanyar Elf" tries to move out of the way too late, and scrambling falls down in a heap, holding at his neck. He looks up at the Captain in dismayed outrage]  
  
I should say that it does. I don't know if you'd have to re-embody if I "killed" you, --I don't suppose you want to find out, eh?  
  

Apprentice: [stunned]  
    
You -- that -- I can't believe you did that--!  
  

Captain:  
    
Strange -- the effects seemed pretty believable to me.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You know what I mean! How -- how -- that was so unfair!  
  

Captain:  
    
Not at all.  
  
[he gets up, sheaths the blade and holds out his left hand to the Apprentice, who stares at him in revulsion and scrambles to his feet on his own.]  
  
You had a fast three-count while I was drawing and turning it, and you sat there "like a bump on a log." You think an animal would stay still for such a threat? Go out and try catching turtles, if you think so. Not my fault you've not got the sense nor speed of a turtle.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Turtles? Turtles are so slow, it's proverbial.  
  
[Beren laughs, as do several of the others]  
  

Ranger:  
    
Didn't I say something like that when you told me to go catch turtles for my first arms practice?  
  

Captain: [dryly]  
    
Among many other things. Let me tell you, after being in charge of a unit for six months, I had even less idea than before why anyone would want to be ruler over the Noldor.  
  
[to the Apprentice, as he sits back down among the company, very lecturing, but not harsh:]  
  
Lad, nothing that fears for its life or death can afford to be wrong in that regard. And we, who have to worry about doing wrong as well, can still less afford mistakes. To be alert, to assess swiftly and accurately, that's the only answer. Else a delusion of the Enemy might cause you to fail, and cost not only your own life, but all those you're tasked to protect -- or too great haste to guard against such might lead you into murder.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
If I didn't remember to apologize then, I'm sorry for saying that I wished I'd not seen the Ring, and shot you as a servant of the Enemy from far off.  
  

Beren:  
    
You--  
  

Captain: [interrupting]  
    
I did mean it, then.  
  

Beren:  
    
I was going to say, you have to be fair, Sir -- you were only agreeing with me.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Agreeing --?!?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yup.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But -- you'd be dead. --Then. And not even have succeeded in liberating a Silmaril.  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
And nobody else would be. And the Silmarils would be where they were for hundreds of years.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You -- you'd rather have died without accomplishing anything -- by mistake \-- than…?  
  
[he looks around at the Ten with a troubled expression]  
  

Warrior: [proudly]  
    
That's because he's Edain.  
  

Apprentice: [frowning]  
    
Isn't that just a dialect form for "Secondborn"?  
  

Warrior:  
    
Not the way we use it.  
  

Apprentice: [sniffs, grasping for the superior manner again]  
    
Even if one grants that you are perhaps not all crazy, you're still very confusing people. And no chivalry, no sense of sportsmanship whatsoever!  
  
[he gives the Captain a very stern Look -- the latter is not fazed at all]  
  

Captain:  
    
Lesson one, friends?  
  

The Ten, and Beren: [chorus]  
    
"War is not a game--"  
  

Captain:  
    
That's why I call duelling "that silly ritual combat nonsense." It creates all kinds of bad habits, and worse assumptions, such as the one that your opponent will follow the same rules as you.  
  

Apprentice: [rubbing at his trapezoidal again]  
    
I'm doomed.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't have to be. If you'd like, we can train you properly, and not finish our match until you feel you're ready.  
  

Apprentice: [bleak]  
    
I'm not as good as you are -- and unless I…cheat…I never will be, will I?  
  

Captain:  
    
I've no idea. Only one way to find out--  
  
[Nienna's student flinches]  
  
\--Nothing like that fast. Or that easy. Same principle, though -- you have to try.  
  

Apprentice: [faintly]  
    
Oh joy.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [serious]  
    
Do you want me to let you off? Call it even, once your task is done, and we're quits?  
  
[the Apprentice is clearly thinking hard about this, but after a moment he shakes his head, though with a very unhappy look, knowing he's going to regret it -- probably more than once]  
  
Good lad. --Second lesson: it always hurts. No matter what you do, or do not do, the results are going to be unpleasant in one way or another. That's the way of it. You simply have to pick. Would you rather live with: having walked away? --Or being beaten like an ingot until you don't stand there like a rock asking yourself -- "I say, can he really do that, now?"  
  
[the other grimaces at the imitation, and the fact that rest of the Ten think it's funny]  
  
\--or stand there afterwards saying "Hey, I've been hit! This can't be happening to me!" for another few moments before reacting. --Shock of it, and the fear, hurts nearly as much as the blow itself, doesn't it?  
  
[the Apprentice nods, unhappily -- then checks]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You hit me with the flat, and it hurt that much.  
  

Captain:  
    
Don't worry, we'll train with blunted and dulled equipment until you're safe to handle live edges.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No. That's not what I meant.  
  
[getting more upset]  
  
I wounded you with edge and point, and I didn't pull the blows either. If -- is this what it's like? To be wounded? Only worse? To be--  
  
[he breaks off, distraught]  
  

Captain: [gently]  
    
I knew what I was in for.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But--  
  
[he looks at the Ten, anguished, and is not entirely reassured by their expressions]  
  

Captain:  
    
Are you afraid that I will exact punishment from you for that?  
  
[giving him an intense stare]  
  
You've already called my honor into question a second time, and you know that I can slice the truth fine enough to weave nets for even such a soaring bird-of-passage as yourself -- are you worried I have trapped you yet again?  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
No. You've only made trouble to defend your friends -- or, well, out of boredom, and--  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--I suppose I could be as mistaken as before, and quite foolish saying this, but -- I don't think any of you bear me any ill will.  
  
[turning and bowing graciously towards the Steward]  
  
Not even you, sir, despite some cause.  
  
[after a second the Steward gives him a neutral nod in return. To the Captain, reluctantly:]  
  
I am worried -- about what I did to you. Can I at least see how badly your arm is hurt?  
  

Captain:  
    
There's naught to see -- we that are but mind and memory have no blood to spill, it's but the thought of it that counts with us, so to speak.  
  
[brief pause]  
  
But I'll give you my hand in fellowship, and to seal our bargain, if you will.  
  
[longer pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Forgive me -- I am disquieted and -- revulsed, I have to admit, by your state. --It's nothing personal, you understand.  
  

Captain: [wry smile]  
    
Do you think I haven't noticed that as well? Why do you think I baited you so hard and left you no time for second-thoughts of any sort? Had to encourage that hot-headed impulsiveness to the point where both your common sense and your reservations were swept away.  
  

Apprentice: [dry]  
    
Which, I must say, you managed most adroitly.  
  
[sadly]  
  
How you must despise me--!  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
I think I'm missing something. What's the matter?  
  
[he looks at the others, who look at the Apprentice, who looks at the floor]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I am not -- easy, among the -- the discorporate, though I do try not to make it obvious, or be -- insulting, about it.  
  

Beren:  
    
You mean dead, right?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- suppose, though the term seems rather clumsy, seeing how, well, it doesn't mean just those who are temporarily lacking as your friends, but your own permanently-transient situation.  
  

Beren:  
    
But you don't mean spirits like in the stories that are invisible servants of the gods--  
  
[breaks off]  
  
\--Is that why I couldn't  
see them? Is it just as simple, as stupid, as that?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Er…  
  

Captain: [urgent]  
    
Don't trouble over it, Beren. The answer's yes, of course, and perhaps, because what does "invisible" mean? Only that you can't see something. Does it matter why now? --That much?  
  
[the mortal shakes his head -- his friends are much relieved]  
  
But I don't think that he means them in any case.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, as a matter of fact, no. --The involuntarily discorporate, to be exact.  
  

First Guard:  
    
What about people who choose to fade? Like the late King's first wife?  
  

Ranger: [a bit aggressively]  
    
Right -- does that bother you less than people who've been killed? And if so, why?  
  
[Nienna's student is increasingly flustered and defensive]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You have to understand--  
  

Beren: [breaking in]  
    
He's afraid of ghosts. That's all. I guess it isn't any weirder than for me.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Yes, but why? It isn't like  
we could do anything to him, even if we wanted to.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [conscientious]  
    
Well, that's not quite true--  
  

Ranger:  
    
Yes, but not really. Not "Undeath" or possession or anything like that. Being dumb enough to pick fights, that's doesn't count. Besides--  
  
[giving the Maia a dark Look]  
  
\--he didn't get hurt, in any event.  
  
[his commander gestures him quiet]  
  

Captain:  
    
Don't be so hard on yourself, lad, you were gracious enough to help me up, troubling to you or not.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes, but -- I had to. I'd injured you, after all.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [thoughtful]  
    
\--Horses don't like going  
near blood. Takes a lot of patience to convince a green pony to carry kill,  
or go to war. They know it's wrong. Not the way things're supposed  
to be.  
  
[Nienna's student gives him a wary look]  
  
\--Not trying to insult you,  
by the way. Just talking about it being in the nature of things.  
  

Warrior: [abruptly]  
    
What about you?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
What?  
  

Warrior:  
    
You change, don't you? That's what we've been guessing. --Though I suppose it could all be illusion, depending on whose company you're in. But when you talk about going home, you're like them again, aren't you? The rest of the Manir? So aren't you being unreasonable to feel as though there's something horribly wrong with us, when you go back and forth from being housed yourself?  
  
[an expectant silence]  
  

Apprentice: [still more defensive]  
    
When I -- forsake this form, I -- am not diminished. It's only a change in states of being. I -- can't understand what it would be like to lose -- part of one's self. And I -- I really don't want to, but I can't help wondering.   
  
[Beren raises an eyebrow]  
  

Beren: [coolly]  
    
Not fun.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah -- oh. That -- I -- forgot. I didn't -- I wasn't--  
  
[he sits down abruptly and covers his face with his hands]  
  

Beren: [even]  
    
It's not just that, it's everything else, too -- you don't know how much you take having both hands for granted until one's gone. It's not like having the arm broken or injured, either. I stumble just walking sometimes, because of that little imbalance in weight.  
  
[the Apprentice, hanging his head, does not answer]  
  

Captain:  
    
It's all right, we won't drench you for honest stupidity.  
  

Apprentice: [muffled]  
    
It's hopeless.  
  

Captain:  
    
What is?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Everything.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, I hope not.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Me, at least.  
  
[Huan comes over, whining, and tries to snuggle, leaning over his shoulder and pressing his head and muzzle against the forlorn Maia's face]  
  
Gyah!!  
  
[he tries to pull away from the sympathetic Hound]  
  

Beren:  
    
That's one of the dangers of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself when there's a wet dog around. He might feel sorry for you, too.  
  
[the Apprentice is treated to some more canine sympathy, not much to his delight]  
  
You better figure out what you want to do, because otherwise he's going to keep trying to cheer you up.  
  

Apprentice: [polite but edged]  
    
Huan, please. Would you stop doing that?  
  
[this has no discernible effect]  
  

Beren:  
    
The way that works best when he's being like that is to push him hard with both hands, just like a horse. Otherwise you're just going to keep on getting wet.  
  
[pause]  
  
I haven't been very good at it in any sense since I lost my hand, of course.  
  
[silence. Nienna's student grimaces and resolutely shoves Huan's nose away from his ear, straightening up]  
  

Apprentice: [sighing]  
    
I'm being insufferable, aren't I?  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
You're being a kid, is all. And everyone gets like that under stress.  
  
[he glances over at his friends, laughing at himself]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But I'm not a child. Not compared to any of you, at least. I'm not all that much younger than the rest of my kind. I just -- have a hard time settling down. Everything's so interesting and different, and why limit one's self? I thought I wanted to be an Eagle, but -- it turned out to be so much routine work, I wouldn't be able to just go off and explore as I expected. And -- there were other incidents.  
  

Beren:  
    
Can't figure out what you want to be when you grow up, huh?  
  
[the Apprentice bristles, then looks a bit worried when Beren only smiles and leans back to look at the Ten again]  
  
He could talk to -- to Finrod about that too, eh?  
  
[ducking quickly to avoid a retaliatory cuff from the Captain -- even the Steward smiles a little at the by-play]  
  

Apprentice: [frowning]  
    
You're trying to encourage me.  
  

Beren: [shrugging again, pulling Huan down next to him by his collar]  
    
Hm, yeah. --You offended by that?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
\--No. But -- that isn't how it's meant to work. You're supposed to be helped by us, not the other way round.  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed? I had heard otherwise, but I must presume myself mistaken. At least with regards to who was also in need of help, if not who should give it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
You make simple things more complicated, you know.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Are you sure? Or is it only that they really were complicated all along? Lord Edrahil's usually right, even if he's got the most annoying way of putting things.  
  

Steward: [slight smile]  
    
One may learn patience from the most unlikely of sources, I have found.  
  

Apprentice: [mournful]  
    
And I thought Lady Nienna was being hard on me with that business of the candles!  
  

Beren:  
    
Candles? What was that?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
They're sort of like lamps, only more convenient: if you can imagine a stick of wax, with a cord running through it, the way the pith goes through a twig--  
  

Beren: [pleasantly]  
    
Actually, I used to help making them sometimes when I was a kid. On account of how they always made me get the combs out anyway because of not getting stung, and hanging around afterwards I usually got to scrounge some of the bits that were too small to be worth pressing, and plus it was boring, but not as boring as having to clean up the leftover wax after.  
  
[the other blinks]  
  

Apprentice: [chagrined]  
    
You meant what was that business, not what "candles" meant.  
  
[sighing theatrically]  
  
She gave me a basket of candles,  
and sent me into Tirion late one afternoon, telling me to light one and give it to each person I met, if they'd accept it, and ask them to carry them around until they burned out. I didn't realize the basket was attuned to the storeroom!  
  

Steward: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
I take it you didn't expect them to last as long as they did?  
  
[he looks quietly amused]  
  

Apprentice: [exclaiming indignantly]  
    
Do you know how many people there are in Tirion?  
  
[the Ten exchange looks]  
  

Soldier:  
    
Not any more.  
  

Apprentice: [morose]  
    
Lots. And they all think I'm mad, now.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
So what was the point of it?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I beg your pardon?  
  

Beren:  
    
Some kind of lesson, right?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes. I thought it was along the lines of a practical joke, to keep me passing out candles so that every time I'd got to the end of it, and was just starting to feel hopeful, it would be filled again. And when she came to meet me at the end of it, in the great square by the Tree, and asked me what I'd learned, I said that I'd learned not to ask how things could get worse. And she asked me if that was all, and if it was all, what would it take to open my eyes? Because I hadn't even looked past the pile of candles for -- oh, hours.  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, that's something you never want to ask, but what was the problem? And what else was it you were supposed to figure out?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I was frustrated and I'd asked her earlier in the day what difference it could possibly make whether I ever -- attained the virtues she was supposed to be instructing me in, how could it possibly be worse or better for my part, what affect could I have one way or the other on the world. And she handed me the basket, and sent me to Tirion.  
  

Beren: [fascinated]  
    
And?  
  

Apprentice: [increasingly rapt in memory]  
    
I was so tired, and footsore, and embarrassed at the end of the day, and I couldn't wait to be rid of the wretched basket, and she took me by the shoulders and said, "Next, I want you to name me the visible stars," and I groaned, and looked up -- and couldn't see a one. There was so much light in Tirion from the candles, and people were standing on roofs and balconies and walkways talking and laughing, and they weren't really laughing at me, they weren't even thinking about me.  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--And that was -- worse, in a way that I'm not happy about. The whole City was -- almost as it had been, before the Night, but different: you could hardly even see the Beacon, and the White Tree was almost as gold as the Lady Tree before She died, and -- it was so beautiful I couldn't even speak, and I hadn't even noticed how many people were carrying my candles, or how much difference it made as Narya came home and it got dark. And we sat there in the square and watched until the flames died away and we could see some of the brighter stars and did that and then we went home.  
  

Beren: [quietly]  
    
What tree was that? I thought -- both of them…?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
\--Oh. No -- that was the White Tree, Galathilion, who lives in Tirion. He -- he was a little version of Telperion, almost like a portrait, but alive, not made of anything inorganic. When the wind blows he flickers just like living flames, but silver. You should see him, when you're--  
  
[he breaks off]  
  
I -- I'm--  
  

Beren: [looking at him intently]  
    
I have. Just now, through your words.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
It hardly seems enough.  
  

Beren:  
    
Never is. But you take what you can get.  
  
[the other gives him a troubled look]  
  
Sounds to me like you learned stuff from that.  
  
[Nienna's student smiles, hesitantly and after a briefer physical hesitation, holds out his right hand -- even as he realizes his mistake and falters Beren pulls him to his feet, left-handed, and leads him the few steps to where the Captain is sitting, giving him an encouraging slap on the back as his victorious opponent slowly rises and looks at him consideringly]  
  

Apprentice: [resigned, and formally polite]  
    
I'm very grateful for your kindness and trouble, milord, in--  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
Not yet, you shouldn't be. You're going to hate me, and every single one of us, many times over, before you're through.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
…  
  

Captain:  
    
But -- if you train properly, you will learn not only self-defense but a certain amount of discipline, and very definitely focus, or you'll wash out very quickly. Can't promise anything more than that, and only what you're willing to learn.  
  
[daunted but resolute, the Apprentice holds out his hand again and does not look away in discomfiture or embarrassment as they shake on the deal]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I promise you, sir, I will learn whatever you can teach me. Nor to quit before you say I can't learn anything more.  
  

Captain:  
    
And I pledge I will not ever, ever push you harder than I truly believe you equal to -- in training. In a testing match, that's a most different story. But even there, I will never punish you, not least for being good -- that is, I will never deliberately hurt you in retaliation for the same, of anger, or humiliate you for making me look the fool as you improve.  
  
[his adversary looks shocked at the notion; he smiles grimly]  
  
Oh yes. You don't think I've been tempted -- or that you will be too? Just wait until some half-yen recruit walks in out of the woods and splits your arrow without even half-trying--  
  
[glancing over at the Sindarin Ranger, who looks away with an embarrassed grin]  
  
\--and then does it again, without any more work, so it's clearly not one of those random incidents that sometimes happen -- and it's equally clear from the minute he draws his sword that he's never used it for anything but a machete to cut reeds with, or possibly to play at swordfighting with other children. If you don't think the temptation'll be there to flatten the little punk so that he -- and everyone else who's witnessed it -- will remember who was the one who looked the fool at day's end, then you've never been in that situation.   
  

Ranger: [wonderingly]  
    
We would never have guessed you felt that way, if you hadn't apologized for it when it was his turn.  
  
[Nienna's student gives him a puzzled frown -- answering the unspoken question:]  
  
In the Pit, sir.  
  
[the Apprentice looks quite ill]  
  

Captain: [to all of them]  
    
One learns things about one's self, inevitably, as a teacher, if one does the job properly. And if one learns -- then one has a choice that must be made. I didn't much care for the destination if I set foot on that path -- it led due North, to my mind. Or who would be left at the end of it.   
  

Apprentice: [pulling himself gamefully together]  
    
So, what, you just beat people up for the sheer fun of it now?  
  

Captain:  
    
Mostly. Or because they need it, as per those who are trainees. --Sometimes for being repellent, arrogant twerps who need it, regardless of the amusement value, to remind them not to humiliate those they think weaker for their own amusement. But not because I've been slighted, however slightly, in front of others.  
  
[stern]  
  
Though if you do things that are not within Eldarin abilities to get out of trouble, in the future, you'll make that much more difficult for me.   
  
[the Apprentice nods, rueful]  
\--Of course, you and I are going to disagree significantly on what you're capable of.  
  

Apprentice: [stoic]  
    
This is going to hurt. A lot.  
  

Captain:  
    
Third lesson -- it always hurts. No matter how good you are.  
  
[the disguised Maia rubs at the side of his neck once more]  
  

Apprentice: [a touch resentfully]  
    
Did you enjoy scaring me like that?   
  

Captain:  
    
A little. You were quite obnoxious, crowing like that earlier, you know, and I'm still going short for that last blow.  
  
[pause]  
  
\--Not anywhere near as much as you not backing down, though. I look for the best in people, and sometimes--  
  

Both Rangers: [coming in simultaneously]  
    
\--he's not disappointed.  
  

Captain:  
    
\-- I'm not disappointed.  

Apprentice: [sour]  
  
    
You're all enjoying this.  
  

Warrior:  
    
Consider it thus, gentle sir -- you've been here to be learning patience, well, you've found the shortest way to it. Nothing like learning from the best, is there now?  
  

Apprentice: [wary]  
    
Indeed?  
  

Warrior: [nodding]  
    
Why, the commander will patiently drub you sixty times running, if need be. Where another instructor would say, "go off and practice at the pels until you get the hang of it," he'll keep after you until you start paying attention and actually learning.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh joy.  
  
[but he doesn't sound quite as gloomy as might be expected -- this is, after all, a major challenge to look forward to.]  
  

Beren: [musing]  
    
You know, where I come from, we seal bargains with a drink as well as a handshake.  
  
[he and the Captain exchange a meaningful Look]  
  

Captain: [offhand]  
    
True. --You want to do it  
all right and proper as per the Old Country?  
  

Apprentice: [getting interested]  
    
Oh, that's with a drinking horn, and that beverage that they make out of bread, right?  
  

Captain:  
    
Something like that, yes.  
  
[the Apprentice does not notice the attentive and hopeful aspect of the other shades, not excluding the Steward, for all his attempts to seem disinterested, in his enthusiasm for arcane lore and living history--]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh, how fascinating! A genuine new-fashioned custom from another culture -- this will be something exciting to tell my family next time--  
  
[meanwhile the Captain has manifested a drinking horn with rather ornate fixtures and offered it to Beren]  
  

Beren:  
    
Hey, I've seen this one before --Wow! I guess it did come from Nargothrond like everyone said.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, I thought you had. You want to make sure I've remembered everything right?  
  
[Beren takes the horn carefully, bracing the tail of it on his forearm, and tries the contents]  
  

Beren: [judiciously]  
    
That's not bad at all.  
  

Captain:  
    
Himself will be happy to hear it. It's always tricky, replicating someone else's art, especially when one hasn't a tradition of it, such as brewing.  
  
[he reclaims the horn, solemnly drinks from it and with a formal gesture passes it to the Apprentice, who unwarily takes a large gulp, and is horrified. Everyone else is much amused.  
  

Apprentice: [gasping]  
    
What -- what is this?  
  

Captain:  
    
That's ale.  
  

Beren:  
    
Also called beer.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
It's supposed to taste like this? Bitter?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nearly. I mean, it tastes the way I remember it, which isn't the same as really tasting something.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And people drink this voluntarily? Not just because you haven't any wine?  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
Incredibly, yes.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
And you -- you like it?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Mortals do.  
  

Beren:  
    
Most. Not everyone.  
  

Steward:  
    
And a very few mad Eldar. --Most definitely not everyone.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
His Majesty likes beer, sir.  
  

Steward: [haughty]  
    
His Majesty has not ever been able to determine whether he likes it or loathes it. Hence his continuing tests across the centuries, culminating in the experiment which served to prove that it would never under any circumstances replace the vintners' work in popular esteem. --Nor even rival it, saving among certain lunatics and risktakers both here and in Doriath. --Though I always suspected it was at least in part an affectation, to appall more civilized folk.  
  
[the Captain grins]  
  

Apprentice: [shaking his head]  
    
It's like some horrible perversion of mead.  
  

Beren:  
    
It is not! Mead is something completely different. And a lot sweeter.  
  

Steward:  
    
He means something entirely other by it, in any case. The word was simply applied by analogy -- it isn't what they drink here.  
  

Beren: [plaintive]  
    
Why did you all do that? How come you didn't just make up different words for different things?  
  

Steward:  
    
Alas, I was not consulted when our ancestors first devised language, not having been born then, or rest assured I would have insisted upon a more logical state of affairs -- I warn you, however, that the result would have been even more words, and thus more nouns to decline.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
There's that.  
  

Apprentice: [a bit sulky]  
    
You're enjoying yourselves at my expense again.  
  

Beren:  
    
But that's good. That means you're welcome.  
  
[the Apprentice gives him a doubtful Look]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But -- they engage in humor at nearly everyone's expense. It doesn't mean that -- oh, the Warden of Formenos is welcome--  
  

Ranger:  
    
Seneschal.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Hm?  
  

Ranger:  
    
He'd be very put out to hear you. Formenos was a much grander stronghold than any of their holdings in Beleriand, because they didn't stop to pack the way we did, and so he has to have a grander title than anyone else.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Don't they mean essentially the same thing?  
  

Beren:  
    
You'll have to ask--  
  
[he does not duck quite soon enough]  
  
\--ow!  
  
[rubbing his head -- to Nienna's student]  
  
See? That's what I meant. He wouldn't have dinged me like that otherwise.  
  

Apprentice: [bemused]  
    
But how do you know? What's teasing-to-show-ease, and what's simple mockery? Are there any rules?  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope. It just depends. --Do you want that?  
  
[nodding to the drinking-horn which the Apprentice is still holding as though it were a poisonous snake]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah -- no.  
  
[with a very dubious expression, not sure what's going to be perpetrated on him next, he starts to pass it across -- but Huan gets up and leans over, intercepting it, and starts lapping out of it.]  
  
Is that part of your joke?  
  

Beren: [chagrined]  
    
No, I think that's Huan teasing both of us.  
  

Huan:  
    
[enthusiastic tail-wag]  
  
[Beren tugs him away by the collar again as if he were a horse and claims the drinking horn]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Is -- that also a mortal custom, sharing one's vessels with one's livestock?  
  

Beren: [swallowing]  
    
\--Not ordinarily. But it's Huan, and it's a shame to waste good beer.  
  
[the other grimaces in recollection]  
  
Besides, we're both ghosts, so I don't think it matters anyway.  
  
[this gets him a damp bit of doggy affection in turn.]  
  

Apprentice: [frustrated]  
    
I'm still baffled. I don't know why he's doing this.  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  

Steward: [comprehending]  
    
Being a dog? Or remaining discorporate?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Both.  
  

Beren:  
    
But didn't he choose to keep going in the Rebellion? So isn't he under the Doom with them, too? Until Lord Mandos judges him?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, yes, but--  
  

Beren:  
    
You think he's gonna cheat and, what, use special privileges to get out of here? Like it was all a game, and now because he's a demi-god he's going home and everyone else has to suffer through?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm--  
  

Beren: [earnest]  
    
He's Lord of Dogs. He's got way too much honor to do that.  
  

Apprentice: [hurt]  
    
You needn't talk to me as though I were stupid.  
  
[Beren nudges at Huan's foreleg with his foot, and the Hound grins up slyly from where he's resting his head on his paws]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm not saying anything that he might not tell you. He called me "witless" for being about to try to walk into Angband alone.  
  

Fourth Guard: [innocent]  
    
But what you haven't told us, is -- was that a conditional statement or not?  
  

Beren: [nodding towards the Maia]  
    
You want for me to teach him that reaping song that has a hundred different verses that all sound the same?  
  

Apprentice: [frowning]  
    
What? That's a contradiction in terms.  
  

Beren:  
    
Not really. There aren't any real words, and each verse is just a note different from the other one, and when you finish all of them the changes bring you right back to the first one. It sounds really neat when you do it right.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
How can you sing it if there aren't any words?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, there are words, only nobody knows what they mean any more. They don't even mean anything in our Old Tongue. There are a lot of working songs like that. And they all sound kind of the same, but they're different. So the threshing song is actually the reaping song done backwards.  
  
[pause]  
  
They seem really easy to sing, but they're not easy to get right, and if you mix it up you have to start over, and your friends throw chaff at you for breaking the changes because if one person gets off then everyone loses their place.  
  
[with a rueful smile towards the Steward]  
  
Lord Edrahil absolutely hates them, on account of how they're boring and complicated at the same time.  
  

Steward:  
    
You left out the fact that once one hears one such -- tune, one cannot banish it from memory.  
  

Captain:  
    
And you've left out the fact that you made certain that someone was humming it, in response to your peevish reminiscences, just when the Warden of Aglon was happening along to scoff at Himself for having been set down by Amarie.  
  

Beren:  
    
See, that's humor-at-someone's-expense.  
  

Captain:   
    
And a particularly-ruthless employment of a Gift, as well.  
  

Steward: [extremely patronizing]  
    
\--Delightful as this has undoubtedly been, I must leave you to your…simple diversions, now.  
  
[he gets up and bows to the Apprentice, just a shade too deeply -- his composure is mostly recovered and his expression is faintly ironic, ready for verbal combat.]  
  

Beren:  
    
But not this. This is just friendly joshing around.  
  
[the Steward taps him lightly on the head as he goes past]  
  

Steward:  
    
Don't bedevil your elders, child -- or at least make a serious effort, if you can't do better than that.  
  
[they share a quick smile]  
  

Beren:  
    
I promise I'll follow your example, sir.  
  

Steward: [sniffing]  
    
Did I advise you thus? I think you'll find not.  
  
[as he edges through, his companions all reach up and clasp his hand or pat his arm]  
  

Captain: [serious]  
    
Good luck--  
  

Steward: [very dry]  
    
It can't be any worse than explaining to the Lady how it was that a conduit was inadvertently sheared across. --And no, I'd not have another instance to verify comparisons.  
  

Apprentice: [staring after him]  
    
You are all insane.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but you have to admit, we do have so much more fun.  
  
[the disguised Maia tries to look prim and disapproving and responsible -- and fails utterly]  
  
Any bets on how long it'll take before he's tripping people into fountains too?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
…  
  

First Guard: [cheerfully reassuring]  
    
You'll fit right in.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Ah -- was that meant as a compliment? Or as humor?  
  

Beren: [nodding, very seriously]  
    
You got it.  
  

Apprentice: [lightly, but with a more thoughtful look than his words indicate]  
    
\--Melisma, but you've caught the habit of cryptic Elven -- erm, I suppose I've got to call it wit? -- as well!  
  
[Huan stretches his way up, leans over, and snuffles him enthusiastically, evoking another strangled yell]  
  



	33. Scene IV.ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.ix

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[the feeling of a long diplomatic standoff or cross-examination pervades -- all that's missing is a long polished table. Luthien is sitting with her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand, looking rather bitter as well as tired; Nerdanel is sketching quickly away on some sort of small folding tablet with a crystal stylus, apparently not paying attention at all, occasionally showing her work to Aule's Assistant for comment. The Doriathrin Ambassador is watching the Powers carefully, particularly the two quiet ones, Aule and Orome, and the Lord and Lady of the Halls are stoic about it all.]  
  

Irmo: [with a lifted eyebrow towards his brother]  
    
I dare say most of us will express loud and vocal dismay if the word "inflexible" is used once more, Luthien.  
  
[she rolls her eyes at this sally]  
  

Luthien: [forced patience]  
    
What am I saying that is so complicated, so hard for you all to understand? --You're just like my parents, really.  
  
[the Lord of Dreams looks put out; Namo starts to say something, and checks himself, earning a sympathetic look from his wife -- and Nerdanel looks up from her notebook with a keen expression:]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Aught is there that confoundeth me, Tinuviel, I must perforce confess: couldst not with all thy manifest and obscure powers, whilst yet in the Old Country, thou to have prevented, ere ever he came to maiming else to death, thy true-love from his madness and his mad designing?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I already explained: I tried. I did everything I could to convince him to give it up and forget about it, that we in fact were free and no one could stop us from living our lives as we pleased from now on, and that he wasn't under any sort of obligation to my father since the task had been given in bad faith, and that no one, least of all Finrod, would have expected that he had some sort of other duty to finish getting killed since he hadn't managed it before. I tried reason, I tried simple begging, I tried tears -- nothing I could do made any difference.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thou hast said -- but, methinks, not so. --Or wouldst say, in truth, that mortal Men be stronger of will and thought and deep-held resolve than ever the gods, than the Dark Enemy of us all and all his bonden Servants be?  
  
[as Luthien frowns at her, Nerdanel not giving ground:]  
  
Might thine own might not have served where 'suasion of plainer means did fail, and bend thy rebel lord to thine own temper, and held him rather by thy side perforce?  
  

Luthien: [snorting]  
    
Of course I could have. I could have taken Nargothrond, too, if Beren would have gone along with it -- it wouldn't have been nearly as hard as the Gaurhoth or Angband, I already knew most of the leaders and I knew them better, in any case, being Eldar like me, from a spiritual standpoint. There might not even have had to have been a civil war at all, no matter what he said. With my power back I could have scryed Celegorm's thoughts like Carcharoth's, and shown him himself as if in a mirror, and made him admit that he knew, really, that what he'd done was wrong--  
  
[Nerdanel flinches, though controlledly, and shifts, her expression pained]  
  

Vaire: [meaningfully]  
    
You've thought about it, then.  
  
[Luthien starts to say something outraged and haughty, and doesn't]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I --  
  
[she tries to speak again, and stops herself, looking both horrified and furious]  
  

Vaire:  
    
You cannot deny it? That you have considered both the possibility and the logistics of the deed, using your power to remove that obduracy and intemperate resolve from your lord's heart, and fill the wound with forgetfulness and pleasure at your approval, instead?  
  
[long pause]  
  

Luthien: [shouting]  
    
Of course I thought about it! How couldn't I? Beren wasn't being reasonable at all. It -- it would have been -- it would almost have been -- I could have told myself it was really only healing, if I'd tried it. That it was wrong of me not to do it, not to save him from himself.  
  
[pause]  
  
But he wouldn't have been Beren then. If -- I'd done -- anything like that -- he'd--  
  
[she clenches her fists, unable to go on]  
  

Vaire: [reasonably]  
    
\--He would still be alive.  
  

Luthien:  
    
No! It -- it wouldn't be him.  
  
[silence]  
  
And I wouldn't be me, any more, either.  
  

Vaire:  
    
So it is more important that his spirit be whole and undiminished, unshackled, than that you possess his outward seeming and presence, notwithstanding either the fact that already he was injured and bound by the effects of Melkor's deeds, or that the consequence of it be risk, and eventually the actual event, of your losing him? --In your own estimation?  
  
[silence -- Luthien gives her a very angry Look]  
  

Luthien: [sharply]  
    
That's not fair.  
  

Namo:  
    
On the contrary.  
  

Vaire:  
    
You do see it, then, don't you, dear?  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head violently]  
    
No, no, no, NO! You're missing something that's so important that I don't know how to explain it besides showing you who we were, and why you can't measure Beren, measure us, by any ordinary standard. It's like my parents' choosing each other -- maybe it doesn't make sense from a practical point of view, but there are other things that are more important, that are what the point of all the practical things really are--  
  

Orome: [acerbic]  
    
You'll find that's not a comparison that's going to make your case more popular around here.  
  

Luthien: [hotly]  
    
Don't change the subject!  
  
[long pause, in which everyone looks expectantly at her, and she extremely defensive]  
  
\--Stop scorning me because I was tempted, all right? You don't know what it's like to watch someone you love destroy himself.  
  

Aule: [with a faint, bittersweet smile]  
    
No? You don't think so, hm?  
  
[Nerdanel glances up quickly at his words and they share a long, meaningful Look]  
  

Ambassador: [quietly]  
    
Little Luthien…  
  
[she gives him an angry glare]  
  
…no longer. We were not so wise, we your elders in earth's growing -- but not in the Unseen realm, I fear.  
  
[her expression changes to sadness, both regret and pity: both of them know there is no going back to what was.]  
  


  



	34. Scene IV.x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.x**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Beside the falls, the Apprentice is happily ensconced in the midst of the Ten, scratching Huan's ears and laughing at something someone has just said.]  
  

Captain: [mild]  
    
Shouldn't you be getting back to work? We really aren't trying to make trouble for you, after all, simply to employ your talents.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes, but…  
  
[he sighs deeply]  
  
It's so much more pleasant to listen to your stories than, well, to be nagged and insulted by everyone else. I really ought to, I suppose…but it isn't as though the complaints are going to cease, after all. If only you could throw -- I shouldn't say that, should I?  
  

Ranger:  
    
Say what?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Hah. No, you'll not catch me that way.  
  

Fourth Guard: [shrugs]  
    
Depending on whom you're thinking of, we might have already done them one better.  
  

Soldier:  
    
That's right -- they could be looking for you right now to report us, since the Powers are still in the meeting.  
  

First Guard:  
    
But, of course, we can't be sure, since you won't say.  
  

Apprentice: [grinning]  
    
Confound the lot of you! What have you done to those two this time?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Injured dignity.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
And kneecap.  
  

Beren:  
    
Shoulder-sockets, too, looked like.  
  
[Nienna's student sighs, in an almost-convincing display of sober maturity]   
  

Apprentice:  
    
What did they do now?  
  

Beren:  
    
Insulted us.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--That is not why they were forcibly removed from the premises. It was the attempted unprovoked assault on him that got reciprocated in advance.  
  
[pause]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
There's something skewed in your reasoning.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Stick around long enough, it'll all make sense.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I'm afraid that's probably true.  
  
[for just a moment he looks daunted, thinking about what he's gotten into]  
  

Beren: [curious]  
    
So, do you have to stay like--  
  
[the Apprentice raises his hand, in a sudden and very authoritative gesture, silencing him]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Do you recollect what I said earlier, when you corrected me as to the negligible difference between perceive and see? --That circumstance will no longer hold true in a moment.  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh -- oh. --Oh.  
  
[he nods, doesn't say anything else; the disguised Maia gives him an approving nod]  
  

Apprentice: [standing up and squaring his shoulders]  
    
Duty -- or duties -- call. I'm not sure when it will be, but I'll bring you news as soon as there is news.  
  

Captain:  
    
Unless you get distracted meanwhile.  
  

Apprentice: [stalwart]  
    
That won't happen, I promise you.  
  
[pause]  
  
Probably.  
  

Captain:  
    
I appreciate the frankness.  
  

Apprentice: [serious]  
    
It may--  
  
[glancing at Beren]  
  
\--not be good news. --Though--  
  
[with a bemused expression]  
  
I've got to admit I'm feeling irrationally optimistic, since you involved me in all this.  
  

Soldier:  
    
"Irrational" is right.  
  
[at the Captain's Look]  
  
Sorry, sir, but someone's got to give you a hard time while he's gone.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but are you going to remember to stop when he gets back?  
  
[Nienna's student turns a chortle into a cough and bows extravagantly]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I pledge you, I shall be back anon.  
  

Captain: [with a casual wave]  
    
And we shall be here, most likely.  
  
[as the Apprentice goes jauntily off, the Captain asks Beren:]  
  
Did that confounded dog leave us any ale?  
  

Beren:  
    
Some. Not much.  
  
[he passes over the drinking horn -- the Captain finishes it and lets the vessel disappear]  
  

Captain:  
    
Anyone else feel that we've company?  
  
[the rest of the Elven shades look at each other;  
several nod, while others shrug]  
  

Beren:  
    
Is it -- her \-- again? His girlfriend?  
  

Captain:  
    
Perhaps. Or not.  
  
[Beren looks around at them, shrewdly]  
  

Beren:  
    
You know who it is, don't you?  
  

Second Guard: [correcting]  
    
Who it could be. There are a lot of possibilities.  
  

Captain: [like someone trying to coax a timid animal out]  
    
You really are welcome to join us. None of us will trouble you -- not even the mortal -- not unless you start it first.  
  
[Lady Earwen's former handmaiden appears softly from the shadows, wearing a rather sulky expression]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I know that.  
  

Beren: [pleased]  
    
Hey, I was right.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh. --Hullo again.  
  
[curious]  
  
Why were you pretending not to be here, Sea-Mew?  
  

Teler Maid: [haughty]  
    
I do not like that young Elf of Lady Nienna's Household.   
  

Captain:  
    
Why not?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
He does not understand. He chides me for malingering and is overbold to tell me that if I do not dare to go Without, then I must not blame it upon any other, and also much to say that I ought at the least to go amongst others nor keep so entirely unto myself.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh.  
  
[pause]  
  
You know, those sound exactly like the sorts of things I would say, if I had thought of them.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I did this once already to tell -- I have had enough of being set down and disregarded in life, by Noldor, that I should wish to meet it more within these walls? I think not!  
  

Captain:  
    
Now, Maiwe -- be fair. Not everyone treated you badly in Tirion. Didn't the Family do everything they could to make you feel at home and make the most of being in our City?  
  
[she doesn't answer; Beren et al torn between politeness and curiosity, curiosity leading]  
  
And my parents, too?  
  

Teler Maid: [reluctantly]  
    
Yes…  
  

Captain:  
    
Everyone of House Finarfin, in fact. Didn't we all include you in things when Lady Earwen didn't need you -- which was most of the time -- and when you'd let us? Short of picking you up and carrying you away like an infant, there wasn't anything more we could do, was there?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I know that you meant well, but it was not -- it was so far from what I was used! You and Suli' and Lady Nerwen and all those big noisy horses and big noisy dogs and big noisy birds with flapping wings!  
  

Captain: [innocent]  
    
Big noisy people too, eh?  
  
[she grins for a second before remembering not to]  
  
We were rather a rowdy lot, I'll admit, and perhaps we tried too hard to put you at ease by being easy ourselves. --But it's noisy enough along the coast, what with the waves crashing on the rocks and under the piers, and the wood creaking, and booms hitting, and the wind in sails sounding like a drum and all -- and I do seem to remember the occasional large white bird shrieking and flapping its wings for a morsel after coming back from hunting for fish.  
  

Teler Maid: [lifting her chin]  
    
It is different, in the harbour.  
  

Captain:  
    
What you're used to, you mean.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But I had no wish to go dashing about the woods and fields like that!  
  
[playful -- what follows is an old joke, clearly]  
  
\--And you do not hunt fish, you catch them, silly. --And it was dull, for me, since I had not skill nor strength for your bows and could not contest with ye.  
  

Captain:  
    
And we weren't Edrahil, either.  
  
[the way she doesn't answer is answer enough]  
  
You know that if you'd kept with us -- I don't mean going out in the field, if you really cared naught for it -- but with the House, you'd have been far happier, met much nicer people who would have taught you all kinds of things and learned from you, too. But instead you had to go trailing after him like a poor little puppy dog all over Aman, getting stepped on or patted on the head by those who thought far too well of themselves already, and not being sure enough of yourself to show your teeth and make them at least treat you with respect and think better of your people, if not with liking. You did choose a good deal of your unhappiness, Sea-Mew, you've got to admit. Even if he did alternate between encouraging you and ignoring you, or worse.  
  
[she gets more stubborn-looking throughout this lecture, and counterattacks:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
How can you say such hard things of him, if you will call him friend?  
  

Captain:  
    
That's how. Because he knows my failings as well as I know his, and does me honor regardless.  
  

Teler Maid: [intent frown]  
    
Why? I do not understand how it is that you and he have become friends, far less so fast.  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
I could tell you it was because he saved my life overseas, but that wouldn't really account for it, particularly because it was largely his fault I got shot in the first place.  
  

Teler Maid: [narrowing her eyes]  
    
Would that not have the effect most opposite, in fact?  
  

Captain:  
    
That wasn't the important part. What followed was what mattered. And followed naturally from the fact that he'd long since become someone I had come to respect, during the crossing of the Grinding Ice.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [still doubtingly]  
    
So he did not go upon the Ships, then?  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
Why did he not?  
  

Captain: [shaking his head again]  
    
You must ask him that, yourself, else you'll have but a friend's guess, whether it be true or false.  
  
[she looks down, and does not say anything. Very seriously:]  
  
\--Did you really think he was with House Feanor, that Night, or that he would have joined them, or even stood idly by and not tried to defend you all? For not even the gods can say for certain what would have been, but I would stake my life upon it -- if I had it -- that not even as he was in those Days would Edrahil have done any such thing, though he would mock me for such faith.  
  
[long pause]  
  
\--Maiwe?  
  

Teler Maid: [suddenly and sharply]  
    
\--I did not think that any of our people would kill us, nor thieve us of our artistry, as they were robbed of treasures of life and jewel, either!  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
No.  
  
[awkward silence -- curiosity winning strongly over discreteness among the onlookers]  
  

Teler Maid: [trying not to sound like it's important]  
    
He is gone again, then?  
  

Captain:  
    
As you see.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Whither?  
  

Captain:  
    
To be harangued by Lord Finarfin.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Oh.  
  
[clearly torn between asking why and being too proud to do so]  
  

Second Guard: [hesitantly]  
    
Hey, Maiwe…  
  
[he gets the glare]  
  
…how come you've come back to join us again when you said we were disturbing you and you'd rather have peace-and-quiet?  
  
[long expectant pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [folding her arms defiantly, spoiling the effect by absentmindedly standing on one leg again]  
  
    
'Tis dull to be elsewhere, now that I do know that ye are come, and the Lady Nienna I might not find, for all my seeking, nor any of the Household of this Hall, saving those few who would not stay at my summoning but left in haste with excuse. What great matter is it, that all must be away about it?  
  

Beren:  
    
Some of it's my fault--  
  

Fourth Guard: [cutting him off]  
    
But most of it isn't. One of Morgoth's Ainur has been spotted prowling about the Pelori, and everyone else is trying to roust out the intruder and reinforce the defenses. Or so we have it on pretty good authority.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
That was not much by way of an answer, still, 'tis better than I have had ere now.  
  

Captain:  
    
So, rather than suffer the pangs of boredom and the worse torments of not knowing what's going on when you know there's something going on, you'll put up with our disreputable and often-over-noisy company?  
  
[she gives him a very scathing Look]  
  
\--Aren't you worried about losing your balance and tipping over one of these days?  
  
[she puts her foot down and straightens with rather a definite stamp, and then breaks into an unwilling smile and hops up onto one of the boulders, very much at ease.]  
  

Teler Maid: [teasing]  
    
At the least you have not hawks and horses and dogs about.  
  

Captain:  
    
Only the one.  
  
[she thinks he's joking]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Which? Not a horse, surely--!  
  

Ranger: [grinning]  
    
Well, almost…  
  
[he snaps his fingers at Huan, who sits up from where he was lying with his head on his paws and looks over alertly]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Oh!  
  
[she leaps off the ledge and stands there staring  
at the Hound, not at all happily]  
  
I thought that was another rock!   
  

Beren:  
    
That's Huan. He--  
  

Teler Maid: [grimly]  
    
\--I know who that is. I recollect -- and do well recall when last I saw--!  
  
[not taking her eyes off Huan]  
  
'Twas at your master's heel, before the House of my King, when your lord's father mocked ours, and would not hear any word of Olwe's wisdom, nor any counsel save his own.  
  
[her fists clench]  
  
\--Do you not remember, dog?!?  
  
[Huan jerks his head aside, breaking eye contact, and barks sharply]  
  
Deny it now, would you indeed, wretch? I saw you with mine own eyes!  
  

Huan:  
    
[double barks, rising in pitch, dog-objecting-to-things-as-they-are]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You! Orome's dog, you were, but wicked, and untrue did you become. --Bad dog!!!  
  

Huan:  
    
[very loud, distraught bark]  
  

Beren:  
    
Hey! He isn't a bad dog. He saved Tinuviel's life. And mine. Several times.  
  
[she looks briefly at him, then glares at Huan again]  
  

Teler Maid: [through her teeth]  
    
How nice for you. --But he did not save mine. --Did you? Did you, Hound of Celegorm? Bad, bad dog!  
  
[as she speaks, getting louder, Huan alternates between barking and yelping in horribly-unhappy-dog fashion, backing away with his tail clamped between his hind legs. Unfortunately this means he's not looking where he's going...]   
  

Third Guard: [slapping at his paw]  
    
Ow! Huan, stop it!  
  

Captain: [very stern]  
    
Get back here. You're not slinking out of this.  
  
[Huan does the negative yelp-head toss thing again and starts trying to back up once more]  
  
Huan! Stay! [he lunges up and secures a grip on the Hound's collar, since words aren't working, hauling on the other's neck as the Hound pulls back and then skids a bit, stiff-legged, on the stone floor -- very much like someone contending with a stubborn horse.]  
  
Dammit, you Hellhound! --Down!!! I'm not equal to this, you bloody idiot!  
  
[as everyone else scrambles to not get trampled, Huan gives up abruptly at these words and drops into a crouch, the Captain leaning heavily on him and grimacing in pain and exasperation as he recovers from the struggle]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sir, why--  
  

Captain: [tightly]  
    
Shut up, Beren, you don't understand -- yet.  
  
[to Huan]  
  
I don't care if you're a demi-god, a demon, or King Manwe himself in disguise, Hound, you're going to carry on a civilized conversation while I'm around. You will not go slamming out of here treading on people, and you will not shout and carry on like the Glamhoth if you don't like what's being said. --Is that understood?  
  
[he shakes Huan's collar once]  
  

Huan:  
    
[repeated pathetic whines]  
  

Captain:  
    
Enough.  
  
[a shocked silence follows-- to Beren]  
  
What? You've owned dogs.  
  

Beren: [faintly]  
    
Yeah, but -- that's Huan.  
  

Captain: [edged]  
    
I'm well aware of that, trust me.  
  
[Huan whines again, and Beren instinctively kneels down to comfort him, but the Captain fends him off]  
  
Don't interfere. You'll understand -- all too soon.  
  
[he nods a little and the other Rangers move up, not to restrain Beren but as moral support in what's coming]  
  
Huan.  
  
[the Hound rolls his eyes, but he waits until getting his full attention.]  
  
I'm sorry I called you a Wolf -- that was pain speaking -- but I'm not sorry for calling you a bloody idiot. Now, calm down and behave yourself. I don't like this any more than you do, and it's only going to get worse, I know. But you know you're stuck until you own up, no matter how many times you sneak away.  
  
[Huan whimpers and tries to twist around to lick his hands, but gets another shake for it]  
  
Stop that. Pity won't make me let you off.  
  
[to the Sea-elf, in a very grim and formal tone:]  
  
\--Daughter of Alqualonde, self-named Sea-Mew, what complaint bring you against the Hound Huan, for which he shall answer?  
  
[she looks a little wild-eyed, now that it's come to this, but doesn't back down]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
When Celegorm his master and his master's brothers did join with their father to steal our ships, and used sword and -- shield? -- shield, all with the tools of the hunt, the spear and the bow and the gutting-knife, to slay those who would bar them from the piers, and drive them from their own works by pain and terror -- this Hound was there, with the other Hounds of Orome's gift, in the following of Feanor.   
  
[Huan starts to make some loud noise, and is preemptively checked with a strong pull on his collar]  
  

Captain: [even more grim]  
    
Are you saying, then, that the Lord of Dogs took part, and led his folk to take part, in the assault on your City? That he is guilty as well of the blood of the Kinslaying? For that I have never yet heard said.  
  
[silence, broken only by almost subvocal canine whining]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Not of the former -- but yea, of the latter, indeed. For he was there, and stood by, and did naught -- naught! -- either to dissuade his lord, nor his lord's folk, neither to defend us, save to make noise of his distress, and to run to and fro, but what availed that, oh mighty and noble Huan?  
  
[she stares at him, and he cannot meet her eyes, but turns his head away with a small yelp]  
  

Captain: [dispassionate]  
    
What judgment would you have, what recompense, that your accusation is admitted truth?  
  

Teler Maid: [ice]  
    
None. What can give back what is ruined? Life, or honor -- once burnt, they are as lost as any ship. That the truth be admitted is enough. Let him bear the shame, with the knowledge of what was not done, as I have borne the witness of it in my heart all this long time since.  
  
[Huan makes a half-hearted scrabble to get away with his forepaws, but not serious, since the Captain keeps firm hold of his collar and he gives up as soon as it tugs him]  
  

Huan:  
    
[single sharp bark]  
  

Captain:  
    
If I let you go, --who are you going to go hide behind? There isn't a one of us whose ignorance will protect you from the truth. And it's a hard, cold truth, as hard as the Ice, and no mistake. If you'd come with us at the first, we might not have been taken by Sauron's werewolves, and the King might not have been killed, and Beren wouldn't have had to live with that. Or it might have all gone wrong, and the Terrible One might have fought you and won, and turned out to be the greatest Wolf the world will ever see, and we might have ended up in chains the same, waiting for death with wrists flayed to the bone, knowing that there was no breaking free and unable to stop myself regardless. --And you'll never know.  
  
[he stares intently at the Hound, ignoring everything and everyone else, including Beren's distress and attempt to curl up hiding his face against his knees, thwarted by the Rangers who compel him to accept a sympathetic shoulder instead]  
  
\--And we all know this, even Beren, even if he's never let himself think about it. And we welcomed you back among us, regardless, for what you did do and the choices you did make, even before we knew the end of the story. If I let you go, Huan, you can vanish, and refuse to face what you didn't do -- worse than fire, isn't it? And none of us, nor even the Lord and Lady of the Halls, can stop you -- not even Lady Nia.  
  
[Huan keens a short, piercing note]  
  
Of course, you'll be abandoning Beren, and failing the trust Himself laid upon you, and turning your back on your own liege lady who's relying on you to look after her lord -- but if you truly want that, want to judge yourself more harshly than any of us, then go--  
  
[he turns the Hound loose with a little shove, sitting back with a frown and watching him closely. Huan continues to hunker there, keening,  getting louder with each whine until the hint of a yelp is to be heard at the end, trying to look as small as a horse-sized animal possibly can but still very much visible. Beren pulls away from his friends and stands up, looking down at the miserable Hound, his face a mask of grief.]  
  

Beren: [roughly]  
    
Huan.  
  

Huan: [flinging his head back]  
    
[echoing howl]  
  
[everyone flinches -- the Sea-elf actually covers her ears -- except Beren, who keeps looking at the Lord of Dogs.]  
  

Beren: [voice still ragged]  
    
Come here, boy.  
  
[crawling by pulling himself forward on his elbows, Huan creeps up to Beren and stretches his neck until his head is between the Man's feet, in the most vulnerable and submissive of dog/owner positions, especially for dogs with long floppy ears. Very carefully Beren steps over and kneels down again, putting his arms around Huan's neck and resting his cheek against the top of Huan's own head.]  
  
You're still my good dog. You try to look out for your people, look out, do the right thing, we don't make it easy for you, do we? I know, I know, -- I'm sorry -- I love you too, pup, okay, get up, you're fine--  
  
[as he speaks randomly, almost, crooning reassurances to the Hound, the latter huffs an enormous sigh, carefully and stiffly stretches back and up, and after nosing him gently in the face, goes over to the Captain, still very carefully and in the manner of a dog who's not sure if he's back in everyone's good graces yet.]  
  

Captain: [wry]  
    
Willing to forgive me?  
  
[he reaches out his hand, but before Huan can push his nose under, he catches hold of the Hound's lower jaw and shakes it as Beren did earlier, a gesture not so much of disrespect nor even familiarity but complete trust, as the returning gleam in the Hound's eyes shows. Huan lifts a paw to brush him away, but he lets go first and  reaches up to lightly push down the bridge of his muzzle, making the Hound's head nod like a horse's. Huan bounces back like a puppy, stiff-legged on all fours.]  
  

Huan:  
    
[short, joyful barks]  
  
[he turns around in place, wagging his tail with extreme enthusiasm, and makes short little bounds up to the rest of the Ten in turn, looking completely crazed as only a happy dog can. When he comes up to the Elf from Alqualonde, however, he does not receive any such greeting from her:]  
  

Teler Maid: [biting off each syllable]  
    
Stay away from me, Lord of Dogs.  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp whine]  
  

Beren: [covering the situation]  
    
Hey. Hey! You're being obnoxious, settle down.  
  
[he tugs Huan down on the floor, where the Hound presses up next to him as closely as possible, a little forlorn, but not wretched any more. The Sea-elf does not weaken, even when the Captain gives her a meaningful Look.]  
  

Teler Maid: [coldly]  
    
You are kinder and more gentle of heart than I. For myself, --I cannot forget, and do not wish to give up my wrath, merely because another justly suffers sorrow for mine own anguish.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [hesitant]  
    
I understand, a little.  
  
[she turns on him, but he keeps going, stronger as he continues:]  
  
It was hard for us all when we found out. About the Kinslaying. My people, I mean, for I wasn't born yet then. Even knowing…or believing, rather -- that the King had nothing to do with it -- and couldn't have, one way or the other -- a lot of folks couldn't deal with it. A few tribes who'd never done so in a thousand years, went and gave their allegiance right to the Greycloak instead. Even almost sixty years ago, there were still people in my village who weren't happy when they heard about me wanting to go to the King's War, not just work on the City and study there.  
  
[she looks at him closely]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are one of us.  
  
[he nods]  
  
And yet you are with them.  
  
[everyone nods, not just him]  
  
And you are a warrior.  
  

Ranger:  
    
One of the best. Better than me.  
  
[his Sindar colleague looks away, abashed, and mutters something unintelligible except for the word "swords"]  
  
Yes, but you know your weak points and work on them and around them.  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Noldor Ranger, narrowing her brows]  
    
You are conceding that one of us Latecomers is better at any single thing, save for boats, than you?  
  
[he gives her an embarrassed smile]  
  

Ranger:  
    
Stranger things than that have happened, Sea-Mew. --Not just one thing, either.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--I don't think that was what she was remarking on, though -- was it, Maiwe?  
  
[she shakes her head, slowly; to the other Teler]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are not foremost in skill with the sword -- but you carry one none the less. And your bow is no light implement for catching marsh-fowl or fish, -- unless it is that ducks and trout in the Old Country have grown very large and fierce since my family left there?  
  

Beren:  
Youngest Ranger: [simultaneously, dead-pan]  
    
Huge.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger is indicating with his hands as they speak]  
  

Beren  
    
\--Bigger than swans.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Which?  
  

Beren:  
    
Both.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
My cousin spent a fortnight wrestling one out of the river, once.  
  

Beren:  
    
No, that was my cousin.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Are you sure? Perhaps it was its nest-mate.   
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
I don't think trout have nest-mates, strictly speaking.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I was talking about a duck.  
  

Beren:  
    
I thought you were talking about your cousin.  
  

Ranger: [snorting, to the other Ranger]  
    
It was so much less annoying for the seven-twelfths of a day that you were too much in awe of The Terror of the Northlands to actually say anything to him.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
Shouldn't have dropped your whetstone, then.  
  
[the Sea-elf has been regarding them dubiously with a not-altogether successful attempt to keep from smiling]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What means that? --Is this yet more of the strangeness of speech that followed on the dividing of our peoples, that you have brought hither with you?  
  

Ranger:  
    
No, I -- was upset and distracted and when we made camp the first night, I dropped my whetstone, and both of them said at once, "Look out, it's trying to rejoin the herd," without knowing the other was about to, and it sort of kept on from there. Turns out that someone\--  
  
[nudging his younger colleague]  
  
\--is a lot less serious and quiet at heart than he ever let on all these years. We now think there's some sort of cultural shift to silliness that goes along with the quesse-parma and sule-thule changes, and that explains much of mortal humour too.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [stiffly]  
    
I was trying to behave appropriately among the High-elves and not embarrass my family for being a yokel. And you're not supposed to elbow a superior officer, I don't think.  
  

Ranger:  
    
We aren't on duty, Lieutenant.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Yes, we are, we're guarding Beren.  
  

Ranger:  
    
But if we're in the field, on duty, and someone spots something, and is right next to another, one always elbows them to get their attention. Because it would be stupid and a waste of time to go through the hand-signals to point out them that there was something they needed to know about, when you're right there. Right?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Well…  
  

Teler Maid: [dryly]  
    
If your theorem is correct, then the condition must come about when you begin to use our dialect as well. But I think it cannot be so, I think it is more a state to be passed from one to the other like damp or paint, for--  
  
[pointing at the Captain]  
  
\--he was ever so, and so I can well assure you who did not know him well in Tirion before.  
  

Warrior:  
    
That's why he went native so quickly over there.  
  

Captain:  
    
Really? And here I thought it was the chance to live out-of-doors most of the time without being considered completely daft for wanting it.  
  

Teler Maid: [narrowing her eyes]  
    
Silly \-- and most deviously endeavouring to distract me from my questions and mine outrage.  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope, that was just a useful consequence. Mostly we're kind of upset and stressed right this moment and my people tend to make dumb jokes that some people don't even recognize at times like that.  
  

Soldier:  
    
What was it you were asking, anyway?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
…  
  

Beren:  
    
See? Useful \-- but complete coincidence. --I think she was trying to ask how come we don't just let the violent warmongering Noldor look after all the fighting for us back home.  
  

First Guard:  
    
Well, there weren't enough of us, for starters, not even before the Bragollach.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
And you didn't come along until after we'd already almost lost once and had been fighting for a long time before and after. --Only not me, because I wasn't born yet then either.  
  

Beren:  
    
And it would just have felt wrong to sit around enjoying ourselves and looking after our stuff, and not helping, when they gave it all to us in the beginning to start with.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You said that twice.  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
"In the beginning," and "to start with," for those are entirely the same.  
  
[Beren just shrugs, with a rueful smile]  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
If you correct Beren every time he says something that sounds weird, you're going to spend an awful lot of time doing it, --and you'll miss a lot of things you'd have done better to hear. Oh, and you've changed the subject this time.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are all ganged up against me.  
  

Captain: [reasonable]  
    
On the contrary. You are all against us, and have driven us back together.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But there are many of you, and only one of me!  
  

Captain:  
    
And--? Still all of you, right?  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Cease this! You are making me laugh, to think of you mighty warriors fleeing before me like a school of fish before a dolphin.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, not fleeing -- but definitely at bay.   
  
[he pats the stone next to him, inviting her to sit down again]  
  

Teler Maid: [glaring at Huan]  
    
I am still much wroth with him.  
  

Beren: [nodding, reasonably]  
    
Yeah, that figures. I bet you will be for a long time.  
  
[he thumps Huan's withers gently as he speaks, and the Hound sighs]  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning at him]  
    
You are not quite so ill-favoured as first I had thought, though indeed very untidy and unkempt.  
  
[he raises his eyebrows at that]  
But of that -- a great part is your devotion to your friends, even in despite of me, and for all that I am unfriends with them. I am much confused, for it seems me that I should like you less, that you defend the lords Edrahil and Huan counter to me -- and yet it inclines me to your part.  
  

Beren:  
    
Um. Okay. I--  
  
[sees behind her the Steward returning, alone]  
  
\--heh, guess we'll test it out some more.  
  
[she senses the Steward's presence at almost the same moment and turns, tensing up very obviously, with a flicker like wind going through her visible manifestation as though she were about to disappear again, but changed her mind. He sees her a moment later, and looks if possible more drained and disheartened than a moment ago, but resolutely comes up to them. Huan whines in a distraught way, but quietly enough not to be obnoxious.]  
  

Steward: [hesitantly]  
    
The Hour's joy to thee, Maiwe.  
  

Teler Maid: [brittle]  
    
There are no hours here, milord.  
  

Steward:  
    
I know. But I could not remember any other of the old greetings that should be fitting.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Why, do you hold that one fitting, then?  
  

Steward:  
    
No.  
  

Teler Maid: [caustic]  
    
What then, you'd not have me joyful?  
  
[he starts to say something, cannot, gesturing -- the Captain breaks in, rescuing]  
  

Captain:  
    
\--What passed with his father? And how?  
  

Steward:  
    
Much, and ill, yet not so ill as might have been.  
  

Captain:  
    
How did Lord Finarfin take it?  
  

Steward:  
    
Badly -- yet, again, not so ill as he might. He--  
  
[breaks off]  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes?  
  

Steward:   
    
He was far kinder to me than he wished to be, -- or than I merited.  
  

Warrior: [quietly]  
    
Not true, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
Is he coming back again, or does he return to the council with their Lordships?  
  

Steward: [shrugs]  
    
As to that, he knew no more than I or you, himself. He would walk longer, and think--  
  
[the Sea-elf is getting more and more tense at each exchange, until she finally snaps.]  
  

Teler Maid: [fiercely]  
    
Will you now again pretend I am not present, that you are among your friends, and do not know why I am hither even as I did come hence with you?  
  
[all of them stare at her]  
  
I tell you, I shall not longer be quiet! No, not though you should mock at my fashion of speech, nor yet be silent when your companions do so!  
  

Captain: [mildly exasperated]  
    
Maiwe, none of us here is going to say anything about your accent. Firstly, we're not Maglor's following, and none of us ever did, at the House or anywhere else, and second, we've been speaking Telerin, the way they do in the Old Country, practically since we left Aman.  
  
[gesturing at the Youngest Ranger]  
  
One of us is Teler, for that matter, you do recall.  
  

Beren:  
    
'Sides which, he hardly even blinks when I say things, and my accent's way stronger than yours.  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning]  
    
That is true.  
  
[glowering even more]  
  
You would dissuade me from my anger!  
  

Beren:  
    
Um -- yeah.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I tell you you will not!  
  

Beren:  
    
But you're not really angry with him.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What?  
  

Beren:  
    
You're angry with the guy who left you without even saying good-bye. But this isn't him any more. So he doesn't deserve to be treated the same way.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What nonsense is this? But of course he is the same who left this shore!  
  

Beren:  
    
Not exactly, just on account of being dead. But more important, from what you were saying, the Elf you knew wouldn't have put his life on the front lines to try to help an Aftercomer like me. So because you didn't recognize him in that description, he can't be the same person.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
If not he, then who is to blame for it? If it is not he who belittled me, and stood by while others belittled me, then how is it that he does remember it and admit to it?  
  

Beren: [agreeable]  
    
Okay. But you're talking to him like he's gonna do it again, when five hundred years ago --  
  
[checks]  
  
\--Whoa. Five hundred years of being angry. Definite disadvantage to being immortal. Anyway--  
  
[shaking his head in disbelief]  
  
\--five hundred years ago, when you were both alive he wouldn't have admitted that it was his fault, right? So you both admit that there's something different about you now. Right? Besides being dead.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are giving to me a headache.  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope, just sharing.  
  
[she snorts angrily]  
  

Steward: [very quiet and carefully]  
    
I'm sorry, Maiwe. You were not pleased to have me greet you, and the matter we were speaking of did not concern you, and for that, and for the second, and for the fact that I am much distracted by it, I did not think to include you in the discussing of it.  
  

Teler Maid: [raising her voice]  
    
Ah, now you will call me and use mine own name, but to quiet my dissatisfaction and defer my anger at your disrespect!  
  

Steward: [baffled]  
    
Did you not demand that I acknowledge your chosen-name?   
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Must you ask? or are you but speaking in twists to snare me in a net and make me contradict me for your satisfaction? I know this dance, milord!  
  

Steward: [crystal-clear emphasis]  
    
How would you have me bespeak you, then? How might I address you, that will not awake either your wrath or your suspicion of mockery or of manipulation? --What should I do?  
  
[she flings her hands out in a wild frustrated gesture]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Nothing. Nothing at all. --I wish I had not known you were dead! I wish I might not have to know it now, and then I might have peace yet!  
  
[she spins about and starts to walk off -- not, however, vanishing]  
  

Steward: [loud enough for her to hear]  
    
And I the same.  
  
[she does not turn nor answer, but stops at the closest pillar and leans against it, hiding her face, her posture both furious and forlorn. He bows his head, accepting her rejection -- but his friends don't.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Go over and embrace her, you idiot!  
  

Steward:  
    
She doesn't want to have anything to do with me. You heard--  
  

Beren:  
    
\--If she didn't want you to go say something, she wouldn't be staying around waiting for you to do it.  
  

Soldier:  
    
He's right, sir.  
  

Steward: [bleak]  
    
I should be most surprised if she did not strike me for the effrontery of such a gesture.  
  

Beren: [uncompromising]  
    
From what she and you said -- you deserve it.  
  

Soldier:  
    
He's right about that, too, sir.  
  
[the Steward looks at them, sighs, then braces himself and goes over to where the Sea-elf is standing beside the column.]  
  

Steward:  
    
Maiwe.  
  
[she does not answer -- he puts his hands on her shoulders, leaning over her a little]  
  
Sea-Mew, please hear--  
  
[in a flash she turns and shoves him hard, flinging him away and back with such violence that he stumbles and falls to his knees, not trying to catch himself]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
How dare you! How dare you think that you might come and call me after all that's passed, and I to answer to your song like an errant breeze charmed to your sail, for so long as you fancy my small strength to buoy your spirits, and then forget, or shun me, when stronger winds lure you to higher, swifter joys! No, I say, I will not be yours to disdain ever again!  
  
[he does not answer]  
  
"Maiwe," you say now, but do you not remember the times in Tirion when your friends would make jibing turn upon the word, and you allow it, or do the same even, that I was but a whining beggar, shrilling for your attention? How you should urge me to take some finer name, as I would not yield to your wish that I should give up my own House's way, to take a name when we should come of age, of that beast or bird most near to our own hearts? And would not hear me when I told you Swan and Heron were not for me, but only the dancing gull that silvers all the air?  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
I remember.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Would you now caress me, that would ever turn from me when I would take your hand and walk beside, nor let me set my arm about your waist when we were anywhere but Lady Earwen's halls, and did I make so bold, you may likewise hold in memory, then would you walk along the streets and square with such long and great strides that I must ever hasten to keep pace with you, nor might we talk, for the haste of your going no less than the silent trouble of your mind -- else you should grip my hand so fast that I take pain of it, nor ever admit that there was aught of deliberation in it, nor failing saving of mine own weakness?  
  

Steward: [not looking away, in the same low-voiced manner throughout]  
    
Yes.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do you not recall how you disdained my gift to you, that I had gathered all of myself, and fashioned by my hands, and crude it was, perhaps, but my Lady praised it and thought it fine, and when I gave it you, you frowned, and but said that no bard should wear a wristlet, for that the beads would strike against the sounding-board, or 'gainst the strings, and so I should have known, nor asked me to fashion of it but armlet or collar that I would have done, had you but spoke the least, the least word of pleasure at my gift! Not so many pearls did I scatter that Hour in the gardens as I did tears--  
  

Steward:  
    
I do recall.  
  

Teler Maid: [tossing her head]  
    
But what should I know of music, that did but sing simple songs, knowing naught of the forms and sciences of it, the modes and mathematics and the harmonics of the heavens that should order all? What was my melody, made but on a reed pipe, that I did cut with mine own knife and give back to the water when it had served its time, but the whistle of the wild breeze in the grasses and no art at all, rough and unshaped as the winds or my namesake's cry? But a buzzing, as of the blue-black shore bee, a silliness to divert children at their skipping -- or so did one say, who would be known as harper full great as his reverenced companion was at song! Do you not remember him, and the words he said one twilight Hour, when I would have given a tune to the Silver One?  
  

Steward:  
    
That, as well.  
  

Teler Maid: [jeering]  
    
No more to say than that? Where is your skillful debate, to set me at a loss, and make all my thoughts and words seem but the chattering of a tiny babe, and turn my sorrow and my righteous anger into folly before all these your friends, as ever did?  
  

Steward:  
    
Against the shafts of truth there is no shield strong enough, nor mail fine enough, to withstand its pangs. Be it enough that I can answer you at all, for even that is almost beyond my enduring. Knowing what has befallen you, and what part I had in it, is grief enough I think to kill me, were I yet living.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [slowly, softly]  
    
I wanted to see you before me humbled and broken-hearted, as I have wept over your coldness to me. And now I have my wish -- and -- I do not much care to have it.  
  
[she makes a slight, half-turning motion, looking briefly at the rest of the Ten, and then away into the shadows, poised as if about to take flight]  
  

Beren: [approaching them, carefully]  
    
Don't.  
  
[she gives him a sharp glance as he comes to stand protectively over the Noldor shade, guarding, yet without projecting any menace towards her.]  
  
Don't run away again. It's not gonna help. Trust me on that.  
  

Teler Maid: [returning to the fray with a vengeance]  
    
And what, pray, shall help? Words, that he has ever used to tangle me and bind me into such confusion that I might not speak, or silence, that left me becalmed and moorless and far from harbor, finding no way to follow him nor homeward fly instead? I am no fool, I know how it shall end, as ever it did, with my self alone and in tears and a fool in the sight of all for loving him!  
  

Beren:  
    
You wanted him to be someone else. And he is. But now you have to deal with this Edrahil, not the old one.   
  

Teler Maid:  
    
For what shall I trust this change, that I shall risk my heart again, as in past Day, to find that it should last only until we again should leave my Lady's House for other halls?  
  

Beren:  
    
Because you're not a fool. Because I'm here, and you know how much that means by way of changes, because you said so. Besides, what have you got to lose?  
  
[silence]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Mine own valuing, that I be not the same poor silly child that could not help but cling to one who loved me not.  
  

Beren:  
    
But you do still love him, so that's just an illusion you're holding on to.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But I did promise myself that I never again should yield so!  
  

Beren: [wry]  
    
Did you swear an oath?  
  
[she gives him a puzzled look]  
  
How much is that worth to you?  
  
[he lifts his wrist]  
  
Your hand? Your life? --Forever? Pride's a damned expensive prize. I know.  
  
[she looks away, then sidelong at the Steward, before meeting Beren's gaze again]  
  
What have you got to gain by risking it? --'Cause that's the question.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [very softly]  
    
I am not sure…I am not sure\--  
  

Beren:  
    
You came back…I think you're brave enough to find out.  
  
[she looks at the rest of the Ten, doubtfully and very defensive, to find that all of them are troubled, anxious, and none of them enjoying her discomfiture at all.]  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Steward, suddenly]  
    
It is said by sundry and by all that you are no longer the same proud, vain soul that was so uncaring to me when we were yet alive. Perhaps 'tis true -- yet there is this as well that you have likely not to thought of, that I might not care for this stranger that you have returned, that bears your same name. What of that, my lord? What say you to that chance of a chance?  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward: [with the merest hint of his normal manner]  
    
I'll chance it.  
  
[they lock stares]  
  

Teler Maid: [suddenly very sad and quiet in turn]  
    
Perhaps it shall be the other way about, and it is he who shall not care now for one who stayed perforce and by her will to stay and never see the changes of the world nor to take part in any of their making, but only to hide in shadow--  
  

Steward:  
    
No chance of that.  
  
[she stares at him, warily, for another long moment]  
  

Teler Maid: [sharply again]  
    
One chance you shall have, Edrahil, for I cannot spare you any more than that, to prove your change of heart, that before your friends and mine -- but more yours than mine! -- you will not be ashamed of me, nor wish me changed, nor silent, nor away.  
  
[abruptly she turns back and takes a place by the waterfall, next to the edge of the spill pool, closest to the Sindarin Ranger, and waits with a very challenging expression as the Steward accepts Beren's (unnecessary) help to rise.]  
  

Beren: [undertone, but intense]  
    
Whoo boy, this is not good--  
  

Steward: [as quietly]  
    
How many chances does one require? If one does not fail.  
  
[he doesn't exactly sound cheerful, but…]  
  

Beren:  
    
This isn't a fair setup.  
  

Steward:  
    
Such is the way of the world.  
  
[still leaning on Beren's shoulder, he goes back and sits down beside the Captain, who presses the flask of miruvor on him without objection. Huan slinks over from where he was lying and drops down behind them, rather absurdly trying to keep as much of himself hidden from the Sea-elf's angle as possible.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Now. --Tell me about the world, and what it is like in these days, and the other Children who dwell in it now, and your War against the traitor-god, and everything else I am ignorant of--!  



	35. Scene IV.xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.xi

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere -- the empty area of shadows, in which the semblance of a gated archway has appeared again.]  
  
[Finrod is standing in front of it, addressing the unseen someone through the lattice, in a concluding-business manner.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Thank you again for hearing me out. I won't say you'll not regret it -- but I promise you'll find it worth your trouble.  
  
[the gate fades away completely once more, but he does not seem discouraged as he turns to leave.]  


  


* * *

_to be continued…_


	36. Scene IV.xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xii**

    
  
  
  
[Elsewhere: the counsel chamber]  
  
[the dynamics have changed again -- this time it is the Lord of the Hunt who is going at it animatedly with the Elven members of the group, living and dead, while his colleagues look on.]  
  

Ambassador: [earnestly]  
    
But it is not the same, my Lord. It may indeed be better, here -- but it is not what we are used to.  
  

Orome:  
    
And? Reason considers the objective values of each circumstance and judges between them on that basis. Alone.  
  
[to Aule]  
  
Right?  
  
[scowling at the Middle-earthers]  
  
\--Not on the basis of sentimentality and a hidebound reluctance to embrace change.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Then you could have all just moved back, couldn't you?  
  
[silence]  
  

Vaire: [sighing]  
    
You don't seriously think that people are going to be able to just leave everything they've built and pack up and go to the other side of the world again just like that?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Oh, come on!  
  

Ambassador: [quietly]  
    
Princess, regardless of the validity of your views, you do yourself and them no service by this incivility and uneducated language.  
  
[aside]  
  
And you make us look bad, as well.  
  
[she snorts and folds her arms angrily, giving him a sidelong Look]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, but 'tis but truth: our parents needs must make shift unto the same, even as -- I deem \-- Melian's daughter would declare. Her question -- if I do interpret aright -- is not without all reason, wherefore it should behoove us better to remove hither, than ye to remove hence.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I really don't see what the difficulty is. After all, that's what Mom did.  
  

Vaire:  
    
Your mother had nothing tying her to Valinor, dear.  
  

Irmo: [aside]  
    
Except for a job. But -- pfft -- what's that matter? You don't even need to tell people you're not coming back -- they'll figure it out eventually, after all!  
  

Luthien:  
    
After all, if that had been the case then there wouldn't be any Return, because we would all be here--  
  
[checks]  
  
I mean, there \-- anyhow, there wouldn't have been any Kinslaying or any reason for people to treat each other differently, because we'd all be the same.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I fear you're being overly optimistic, my Princess.  
  

Aule: [with a disbelieving smile, ironic]  
    
What about the Trees? It isn't as though my wife could have made Them over again, and They were a little -- just a trifle -- large to dig up and transplant like chrysanthemums.  
  

Luthien:  
    
We did fine without Them.  
  
[to her compatriot, not waiting for agreement]  
  
Right?  
  
[very patronizingly to the Smith]  
  
\--They could have stayed here, and you could have remade the Lamps there, if you wanted.  
  

Namo: [adamant]  
    
No.  
  

Aule:  
    
There were -- serious design flaws -- in the Lamps. The risks--  
  
[Luthien interrupts again; Aule's Assistant rolls his eyes]  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--But there was only a risk because Morgoth was out-and-about, and since he was locked up then it would have been safe, right -- who else was going to try to get at them?  
  

Irmo: [patiently]  
    
Well, as a matter of fact, there was Ungoliant. We didn't know about her at the time, of course. But dangers one is unaware of are not non-existent--  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--Don't talk down to me!  
  

Irmo:  
    
Then don't ignore the obvious. You--  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
You're acting as though none of these sorts of problems ever came up in discussions, as though they never would have crossed our minds until you suggested them.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well, make them sturdier, or -- put some sort of covers on, or barriers about them, or something. A solution could have been found.  
  
[Aule covers a smile; the Weaver leans over and whispers to her husband]  
  

Vaire:  
    
Is this reminding you of anyone we know?  
  
[he nods briefly, inspecting the contents of his cup as an alternative to the debate]  
  

Luthien: [gesturing widely]  
    
It's not critical anyway, we didn't need them -- we didn't need anything besides the stars.  
  

Irmo: [raising his hand in turn]  
    
There are all kinds of issues that -- we could spend decades considering them in-depth -- where to set up, the distance from the Sea, the transportation issues of bringing all of our work and re-establishing it in Middle-earth again -- the not-inconsiderable emotional effects of returning to a place of such mixed memories -- these Halls themselves -- just to begin with a few.  
  

Luthien: [with a dismissive shrug]  
    
Something could have been figured out. It would have saved so much trouble.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, 'tis not so simple of a matter as wouldst make it. Manifold and deeply-meshed as the ore ere it is smelted be the elements of these our Kindreds' difficulties, and eke that is changed doth change a dozen other of diverse sort, and eke in own turn still more, so that in end what was should be so changed that none might guess how had it befallen from the first, that be but one change and that but slight -- and each various end bring both ill and good in company, and what serveth one should disservice render to another, or harm, else displeasure. --Thy mother and father should have been more glad, had thy true-love ne'er crossed thy path, and they have suffered even of the same cause that thou hast taken joy, and thou as well joy and sorrow at once hath found, and shalt thou -- or any -- sever the twain?  
  

Luthien: [calm]  
    
That's because they were stupid.  
  
[the Ambassador winces]  
  
If they hadn't been selfish idiots, nobody would have suffered. We could have been happy, and everything would have been all right for everyone, not just us. Instead, they started a chain of events that's killed I don't know how many people so far and made even more people miserable. It's their own fault, and it isn't complicated at all.  
  

Nerdanel: [very quietly]  
    
And yet -- thy lord is mortal.  
  
[Luthien ignores this, though her chin goes up a little more]  
  

Ambassador: [sighing]  
    
Highness, Highness, you know it is more complex than mere folly. You know that your father's Sight long forewarned him that disaster and trouble should attend the coming of humans into our lands, that your mother has contended with encroaching Doom for Ages, and you know your parents' wisdom is to credit for our realm's ancient safety and prosperity. Why should he -- or we -- misdoubt any of his forebodings, nor make light of the risks that Men should pose? Were not the doubts he held of our foreign kin most sadly proven well-founded?  
  
[she doesn't answer; everyone in the room looks a little grimmer at that]  
  
Then why should they not deem it so that -- he \-- should be the fulfilment of that dark vision, and his beguiling of you, my lady, the catastrophe your father so long ago Foresaw?  
  

Orome:  
    
That's a good argument right there against having that information just out there. People make bad decisions based on incomplete data and set in motion events that are far beyond their ability to control. If Elwe had just stuck with the plan, and brought everyone here, we wouldn't be dealing with this mess.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But if we had all just stayed in Middle-earth then it wouldn't have mattered, because then mortals would simply have come along when it was their time just like the Naugrim and there wouldn't have been any reason to be suspicious and none of the troubles that followed would have happened.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Once more I must declare I think that a far-from-warranted assumption, my lady.  
  

Irmo: [frustrated]  
    
There are two distinct problems that you're conflating and that's creating chaos. One is whether or not we should have brought, or tried to bring, your people here to a defensible place and a place of safety. Which it is, by every possible standard of comparison. There have been three instances of murder, in Aman, all connected, in all of recorded history. The number of deaths at Alqualonde--  
  
[raising his hand, giving his brother a meaningful Look]  
  
\--I'm not minimizing them, I'm just being accurate \-- do not begin to approach the tallies of those killed in Beleriand before Morgoth ever returned. --Unnecessary deaths, which would not have happened had not your father carried out his obligations instead of tarrying to seduce your mother and leave your people to fend for themselves--  
  

Luthien: [hotly]  
    
\--That isn't what happened!  
  

Irmo: [keeping going]  
    
The other problem is whether or not we should have informed you of the fact that you were not intended to be alone in the world and that other sentient life-forms would eventually appear on the central land-mass, which is an entirely different topic, despite the efforts of--  
  
[giving Nerdanel a troubled glance]  
  
\--various parties to connect them in discussion.  
  

Nerdanel: [didactic]  
    
Thou knowest I do hold and ever have, that yon long-made choice to withhold counsel from our kindreds concerning the coming of the Secondborn was grievous error, nor without some part in the cause of my husband's festering madnesses. Ye should ne'er have left unto the Dark Lord that knowledge to convey, and impart withal the taint of his own jealousy.  
  

Aule: [creasing his brows]  
    
No, 'Danel, I'm afraid I can't remember you saying that . . . more than, oh, six or seven thousand times this Age.  
  

Irmo: [admonitory]  
    
That sort of sarcasm is very inappropriate, you do realize?  
  

Nerdanel: [smiling]  
    
Nay, but we of his Following are well used unto his ways, my Lord--  
  

Luthien: [cutting her off, to the Lord of Dreams]  
    
\--Who was being sarcastic about my mother just a few minutes ago?  
  

Vaire:  
    
Luthien. Would you please stop interrupting like that?  
  
[Luthien subsides with a very bad grace]  
  

Orome:  
    
It wouldn't have become an issue anyway, if he had stayed locked up.  
  

Irmo: [leaning forward, very definite and stern]  
    
We don't know that.  
  

Orome: [snorting]  
    
How could it have been an issue? How? You tell me.  
  

Aule: [steepling his fingers]  
    
Developments in better scrying technology.  
  

Irmo:  
    
The fact that no one had Seen the Secondborn yet proves nothing about whether or not anyone would have Seen them eventually, either.  
  

Assistant:  
    
Or that the curious might have made eastward expeditions in time without, or with, Feanor's involvement, my Lord.  
  

Luthien: [caustic]  
    
We would have known, as soon as humans turned up. Once you meet someone it's sort of difficult to keep on not knowing they exist.  
  

Assistant: [dryly]  
    
Highness, -- do you not think it might be fitting to show oh, at least as much respect to a Power here as you do at home?  
  
[the Lord of the Hunt fights back a grin]  
  

Orome:  
    
Oh, trust me, she is.  
  

Ambassador: [hoping against hope]  
    
You were not really this rude to your lady mother--?  
  

Luthien:  
    
. . .  
  

Nerdanel: [dauntingly]  
    
So much of empty breeze is this talk. I stand in great amaze, noble ones, that any yet should yet aver, that darkness of intellect should be preferred, e'en but in fancy and conjecture, as conducible to light and peace -- when manifestly hath it been far otherwise!  
  

Aule: [patient]  
    
'Danel, we're just talking hypotheticals. Discussing possibilities is casting light on them, don't you agree--  
  

Luthien: [frowning]  
    
What are chrysanthemums? Are they something new?  
  

Namo: [aside to his wife as the debate spirals on]  
    
There are many reasons why I'm hoping they track down that rogue soon.  
  

Vaire: [mock reproach]  
    
That's hardly fair, darling.  
  

Namo:  
    
Oh, I'll need you to coordinate operations. A perfectly legitimate reason to adjourn for a while.  
  

Vaire: [smiling briefly]  
    
It won't make the problem go away, you know--  
  
[she flinches as the Hunter pounds on the arm of his chair to reinforce a point]  
  
\--Tav--!  
  

Orome: [not hearing her]  
    
All right. --All right. If that's what you want we can go through every single reason for and against--  
  
[the Doomsman, sighing, reaches up to snap his fingers again, filling the room with a blinding burst of light . . .]  


  



	37. Scene IV.xiii - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xiii**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[beside the waterfall -- the Ten are gathered in a loose circle, at ease, though not entirely careless: there is a wary attention both to the shadows around and to the latest addition to the company, who is seated among them with only a slightly-less hostile and confrontative demeanor. Beren is on her left, on the other side of the Teler Ranger, and Huan is curled up behind the Captain and the Steward, (who are using him for a backrest) with his nose between his paws, though his expression betrays the fact that he is paying attention to the conversation. The Sea-elf is looking across the circle at her ex with rather a critical tilt to her head.]  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Steward, wonderingly]  
    
I do not think I have ever heard you be silent for so long.  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
It is -- most awkward to engage in a conversation when the matter of it is one's own praises.  
  

Teler Maid: [acerbic]  
    
I do recollect it never troubled you before, that you should be hailed amidst your peers, and those you'd have hold you as such. --And what's more: since when is "madly fixed upon every least detail unto the weight of a single grain," a word of praise?  
  

Third Guard: [breaking in]  
    
\--Since it meant the difference between life and death to an awful lot of families, my own included.  
  

Soldier:  
    
And not just ours, but the High King's following as well.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
That's what I said.  
  

Soldier:  
    
Oh. That's right, you were with them originally, weren't you? I'd forgotten.  
  

Teler Maid: [turning sharply on him]  
    
Are you a Kinslayer, then?  
  

Soldier:  
    
No. We were with Lord Turgon and their father, not his siblings.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [darkly]  
    
I could almost wish it were so that one might speak untruth here, that I might deny you.  
  
[Beren leans forward to get her attention]  
  

Beren: [chiding]  
    
Hey. You want to take your anger out on someone, yell at me, why don't you?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you were not party to it -- you were not even born yet, then.  
  

Beren:  
    
Doesn't seem to make much of a difference to most folks, so far. But that's my point.  
  
[she scowls at him]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I do not like you so well now.  
  

Beren: [shrugs]  
    
Sorry.  
  

Teler Maid: [distracted]  
    
\--How do you manage without your hand?  
  

Beren:  
    
Not too good.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
\--Do you not mean "well"--?  
  

Beren: [shrugging again]  
    
That too.  
  
[as he answers she catches herself, guiltily, and gives a quick look over in hopes that the Steward hasn't noticed. No luck, though he does not say anything and looks down at once; she glares hard at him and crosses her arms in defensive defiance. The Youngest Ranger taps her elbow, and nods meaningfully towards the mortal.]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [not meanly, though]  
    
You want to really drive yourself mad -- and everyone else for good measure -- try counting how many different ways he's got for saying yes that aren't the word "yes."  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [stiffly]  
    
I am sorry, Lord Beren. I ought not to make a fellow guest to feel unwelcome here.  
  

Beren: [terse, staring straight in front of him]  
    
\--Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last.  
  

Captain:  
    
Beren.  
  

Beren: [abashed, bows his head]  
    
Sorry.  
  
[to the Elven girl]  
  
\--S'okay.  
  
[she looks away, still annoyed, and gives a quick glance at the Captain before addressing the Steward again:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
He said you did not treat me well when we were both alive.  
  
[the Steward sighs, nodding]  
  
You are not angry at that?  
  

Steward: [bemused]  
    
For what should I be angry? It is no more than the truth.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You were not always so easy with the notion that you might possess them -- far less to hear any chronicling of your faults.  
  

Steward:  
    
That too, I cannot deny.  
  
[pause -- very reluctantly]  
  
You do ill, Maiwe, to seek to make division between us.  
  
[she tosses her head and looks away, obstinate]  
  

Captain: [shrewd]  
    
Do you think it betrayal, this friendship of ours, of yours?  
  
[she does not answer]  
  
But that was our friendship's foundation, Murrelet.  
  

Teler Maid: [challenging]  
    
How?  
  

Captain:  
    
That he should talk of you to one that knew you well, and speak of how ill he'd treated you to one who'd not gainsay him.  
  

Teler Maid: [still very skeptical]  
    
Why?  
  

Captain: [looking to the Steward]  
    
\--Shall you, or shall I?  
  
[the other raises his hands in a resigned gesture]  
  

Steward:  
    
You will enjoy it far more.  
  

Captain: [shaking his head tolerantly]  
    
\--For one who'd have been a bard, you've a curious distaste for telling stories.  
  

Steward:  
    
Only mine own.  
  

Captain:  
    
And those you're involved with.  
  

Steward: [with a cool Look]  
    
That is what I said, is it not?  
  

Captain:  
    
Not exactly, no.  
  

Steward: [still more acridly]  
    
On the contrary: if I was involved, even on the periphery, then it is to however small a degree my story as well.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, by that principle, then everything that ever happened involved you, for if you weren't present, someone known to you was, or related to you, or it had some consequence direct or indirect upon your life. Therefore I maintain my assertion, that you are signally unfond of recounting tales.  
  

Steward: [icy patience]  
    
You are, as usual, exaggerating grossly again.  
  

Captain: [leaning back against Huan with a smug grin]  
    
\--Never.  
  
[long pause, during which the Teler girl stares at them in wide-eyed disbelief]  
  

Steward: [sighing heavily]  
    
Go on, finish the story -- or begin it, indeed.  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
Oh no, clearly you'd rather correct my speaking than hear me speak, so I'll be silent.  
  
[pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
No. No. It is entirely too twisted for you to compel me to beg you to humiliate me in public. One must draw the line somewhere.  
  
[his friend only smiles innocently, and says nothing]  
  
\--My Lady, if you're attending, your help would be most welcome now!  
  

Captain:   
    
The thing about help is, you don't get to say how it comes, you know.  
  

Steward:  
    
Shut up.  
  

Captain:  
    
Absolutely.  
  
[the other, after a visibly-jaw-grinding moment, raises his hands in capitulation and asks:]  
  

Steward:  
    
Would you then be so kind as to answer this gentle's question that I might be spared the painful necessity of doing so myself? --This is utterly wrong.  
  

Captain: [cheerfully]  
    
All right.  
  
[he sits up straight again and prepares to go on, while the Steward leans his forehead on his hand -- but is interrupted by the Sea-elf, who is too shocked almost for words:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But -- but -- he is not angry with you?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That's just their way. They've been doing it since before I was born.  
  

Teler Maid: [skeptical]  
    
In truth?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh yeah. Apparently generations of my relatives on both sides of my family used to regularly lose bets to these guys--  
  
[gesturing at the rest of the Ten]  
  
\--expecting one of those two was going to haul off and hit the other, and they never did, of course.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Bets?  
  

Beren:  
    
Er, wagers?  
  
[she shakes her head]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I do not understand the notion.  
  

Beren: [helpless]  
    
Oh.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
It's when you don't know what will happen, and so you make a promise with someone else that if it falls out one way, you will give them something valuable, but if it falls out the other way, they will give you something valuable instead.  
  

Teler Maid: [puzzled]  
    
Why?  
  
[he shrugs, embarrassed and unable to explain better]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
It makes things more interesting that way.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I do not see how.  
  
[uninterested in the subject, to Beren:]  
  
Where are your kinfolk?  
  

Beren: [taken aback]  
    
Uh -- dead, mostly.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But they are not here?  
  
[completely thrown by this question, Beren looks around at the others for help]  
  

Captain:  
    
Mortals don't abide here, Sea-Mew. But surely that's known to all in the Halls, certainly after the Bragollach?   
  

Teler Maid: [shrugging]  
    
Mayhap. But I have not cared to attend much to all that's said or done herewith.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
Then for what are you here? I had thought you must be the first of the Secondborn.  
  

Beren: [starting to get agitated]  
    
\--No. Not by a long shot.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But then why are you yet here? Or do you but ignore my questions as was his wont?  
  

Beren: [increasingly distressed]  
    
No. I -- I'm not supposed to be here. It's this big mess.  
  
[on his other side the Warrior grips his shoulder, deeply anxious -- Beren answers the unspoken question through set teeth:]  
  
\--I'm okay. Really.  
  

Teler Maid: [total frustration]  
    
But why\--?  
  

Captain: [half plea, half exasperation]  
    
Maiwe--  
  

Beren:  
    
Because I'm trying to stay with my wife.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But--  
  
[the realization takes place]  
  
She is one of us . . . ?!?  
  
[he nods, once]  
  
But--  
  
[she trails off, her brow furrowing]  
  

Beren: [very dry]  
    
Believe me, I don't think there's a variant of "What on the gods' green earth does she see in you?" that I haven't heard yet.  
  

Teler Maid: [shaking her head  
    
That was not what I would say, only -- I do not know what I would say. There are too many things, I think, that I must know to ask what I must know!  
  
[she pushes back her hair with both hands and lets them fall in a gesture of resigned dismay]  
  
I did not comprehend that it should be so new upon you, nor that yours should such a different matter prove, else I'd not have pressed you so hard for answer. I shall not more, for I like it little when others do ask me hard questions I would not answer.  
  

Beren:  
    
Thanks.  
  

Teler Maid: [worried]  
    
Are you much angered with me?  
  

Beren: [gently]  
    
No.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I do like you, truly, I do believe.  
  
[at this admission the Youngest Ranger stops glowering between them; abruptly she turns back to her original question:]  
  
So, then, tell me -- how did it happen that you should happen to talk of his unmannerliness to me?  
  

Captain:  
    
It's a long story--  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
\--but not that long, don't worry.  
  
[Beren gives an exaggerated sigh of relief]  
  

Teler Maid: [affronted]  
    
You do jeer at me again.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, we're teasing Beren this time.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Or he's teasing us.  
  

Teler Maid: [wary]  
    
Then which, pray tell, is it?  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh, definitely both. --Probably.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Now you do tease me indeed.  
  
[she can almost completely keep from smiling]  
  

Beren: [blandly]  
    
Could be.  
  
[she makes a dismissive gesture, rolling her eyes, and turns back to the Captain]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Was that before or after he shot you?  
  
[the Steward covers his face]  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
He didn't shoot me, Curlew, not by accident or purpose. He simply ignored my warning and ventured into a dangerous situation.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then whence came you to mischance?  
  

Captain:  
    
We were riding escort, and that's what the job entails, dangerous or not.  
  
[there are looks exchanged among the Ten]  
  

Ranger: [reluctant]  
    
Er, sir--  
  

Steward: [irritable]  
    
If you insist upon telling it, then tell it properly, at least!  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but by that you mean painting yourself in as bad a light as possible.  
  

Steward:  
    
I mean leaving out no pertinent detail.  
  

Captain:  
    
Very well, I'll do my best, though you'll not be pleased of course. --The reason we were riding to a parley with minions of the Enemy was that against my counsel (but not mine alone, I wasn't as senior at that point, but all of us with much field experience thought it a bad idea, not myself merely) he had persuaded our lords to permit him to respond, saying that as it was then known (or at least rumored through his contacts among House Feanor's following) that the ill-fated parley had gone wrong because the Noldor side had gone with far more than their promised number in hopes of taking the Enemy's emissaries as hostages, and broken faith first, it wasn't certain that negotiations were truly out of the question, as a good-faith attempt had never been undertaken.  
  

Teler Maid: [shrewdly]  
    
But was not Melkor given his freedom in good faith, and did break that faith, ere ever you reached the other shore?  
  

Captain:  
    
Did I say I thought it a good idea? I didn't, many of those who had seen combat didn't, none of those who were born in the Old Country, veterans or not, thought it so, and Lord Turgon, whose Following had already attracted a great many of the locals and thus had direct access to a great deal more information unmitigated by protocol, never did agree with it.  
  

Beren: [interrupting, shaking his head]  
    
I still don't see why they did. I mean, maybe that's hindsight, because of us fighting the War for so long and that was early days, but still . . .  
  

Captain: [lifting his hand in a small shrug]  
    
Well, between the appeal to Family rivalries implicit in the assumption that we could do it because we were smarter, as well as more honest -- which captured the support of Prince Fingon and their father from the first, before any operational details were discussed -- and the moral high ground of trying to solve things peacefully as well as honestly, which lured Himself into it eventually, we skeptics were outshouted, -- which is an exaggeration, true, voices were raised but it wasn't quite shouting. We didn't know then that the Enemy had also sent a force vastly over the agreed numbers to the Feanorion's parley, but nobody should have been surprised by it.  
  

Steward:  
    
I was not surprised -- by then.  
  

Captain: [caustic]  
    
I should hope not. --So he won permission to make the attempt, and the contacts were made via their spooks, and a time and place appointed for it, and it was my luck to get the assignment, and we went. Now I wasn't happy with it for several reasons, one of which was that although the location was open, and the country open, there were a lot of rocks and it was far from flat, meaning lots of good cover.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
\--Of what?  
  

Captain:  
    
Er, hiding places. For the foe.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Oh. Like quail.  
  

Captain:  
    
Exactly. So there was that -- but then it was to be held in broad daylight, which was also in our favour. But the morning started clear and then started getting overcast, and I got suspicious about that, and the closer we got the more cloudy it got, and then a bit of fog started coming in as well, and I started objecting strenuously, only to be told that there was nothing unnatural about it, days often got gray as they wore on, and was this part of the country not known for its mists?  
  

Teler Maid: [narrowing her eyes]  
    
I think you are not saying it quite as he did say it.  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
Near enough. --And that was all true, only I still didn't think it was natural at all. And I kept saying so, and we just kept getting closer to the destination, and yes we had a large company, all within the agreed on limits, and I just kept on thinking to myself, Balrogs. What if the rumours about the Balrogs were right?  
  
[she shivers]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I have heard of them, even in my solitude there were whispers of them. Are they so terrible as all do tell?  
  
[he nods, very seriously]  
  

Captain:  
    
And reminding myself that neither of us was a prince of the blood, nor any particular prize, didn't help much against all the warnings from my Sindar colleagues that the Lord of Fetters didn't care who you were so long as you could make weapons for him.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you know naught of smithing.  
  

Captain:  
    
But they wouldn't know that, would they? And there's plenty of work that requires no particular art, merely coordination and strength.  
  
"We're all going to end up thralls in Angband, or dead," we all kept thinking, though we hoped we were very wrong. And now we're at the edge of the place where the parley's to happen, and the visibility's poor, but not terrible, and if it were any other business I'd be worrying about rain starting and slippery footing for the horses most of all, not an iron collar -- but there's no one there in the center of the ring of flat stones that was the designated spot, and no one in sight for leagues around, and there was no way beneath the hidden Sun I was going to walk us out into that unprotected area.  
  

Huan: [not moving]  
    
[low, but rising, growls]  
  

Captain:  
    
We were about three bowshots from it, and I told my riding to stay put in the gorge we'd just come through, that I wasn't going to budge until we saw some signs of a good-faith effort to meet us, namely some visible enemies coming to parley, we were going to wait, watch, and be late if we must, but we were not going to put ourselves in the open.  
  
[he reaches back & pokes the quiescent Hound]  
  
Stop growling, you.  
  
[Huan gives a penitent tail-wag-in-place]  
  
And -- since he wants me to tell you it as if he were telling it, there was a lot of unpleasant conversation at that, and I wouldn't let him embarrass me into going through with it, and he wouldn't agree that I knew what I was talking about with regard to the number of troops that could be hidden in this apparently open countryside, so he says to me, "Do as you please, and I will do my duty," and goes to ride out there alone.  
  

Ranger:  
    
We couldn't tell if ou were insanely brave, or just insanely overconfident.  
  

Steward: [snorting]  
    
Neither. I was petrified. But I did believe in the mission.  
  

Captain:  
    
So obviously I had to go along (though I really wanted to take the flat of my sword to his skull and drag him back home regardless) with strictest orders to my company to stay put, regardless, and dire threats of what would happen if they didn't -- and all of us so rattled it didn't occur to any of them to ask me how I'd manage that if things went badly. And we get halfway there, and nothing stirs, not even the wind, and you could not have offered me a Silmaril to keep going, and he just keeps steadily on at a walk, and we're about three-fourths of the way there, and something spooked my horse -- but it might only have been me, so I circled about a little--  
  
[making a descriptive gesture with his hand]  
  
\--trying to catch another glimpse of what it was that I'd thought I'd seen, and apparently that worried our adversaries into thinking we were about to give up and go. So someone from their side lets slip a little too early, from behind one of those scattered boulders on the heath, and that's how I got shot. Our armour wasn't so good then, before we purchased proper mail from the Dwarves and learned the art of making it ourselves.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Where? --Nor do you say, "in Beleriand"--!  
  
[he indicates a point on his upper arm]  
  

Ranger: [with exasperation]  
    
Sir--  
  

Captain: [offhand]  
    
Might have been a little higher--  
  
[the Steward elbows him]  
  
Oh, well, that too, -- but it was the other side.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
How many arrows by which you were struck?  
  
[she is nervously twisting one of her braids tightly around her fingers, not even realizing that she is doing so]  
  

Captain:  
    
Just one.  
  
[she frowns]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then how--  
  

Youngest Ranger:   
    
\--Nailed right through to his ribcage and into his lung. That's what I heard, at least. I wasn't there for it, as I wasn't yet born.  
  
[she gasps, wide-eyed, and then turns an absolutely furious glare upon the Steward]  
  

Steward:  
    
I had seen death, and I had seen those slain, and even wounded, but only after significant time and sufficient for medical attention to have begun -- never anyone so gravely injured and yet living, or halfway. Not at that early point.  
  

Captain: [to the Sea-elf, trying to reassure her]  
    
It was not that bad.  
  

Steward: [grimly]  
    
It was very bad, and would have been so had not the arrow been poisoned as well.  
  

Captain:  
    
I thought I was telling this story.  
  
[silence]  
  
It could have been much worse.  
  

Ranger: [quiet]  
    
It was bad, sir.  
  

Captain: [resigned]  
    
I didn't say it wasn't. But at least -- no, wait, I can't say that, can I? At any rate, we were able to get back to the others where I'd left them, and there were some sharp words, but quick, for the need to hasten past our foe's reach, and by the time we reached a distance where we might alight in some surety, if briefly, the poison had taken strong hold, and our company healer didn't want to draw the arrow, but didn't dare leave it in for the sort of riding we had yet to accomplish, and I was starting to lose my grip on reality, and so were my companions, with less excuse, and there were some very harsh words given to, though not exchanged with, our Herald.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Deservedly.  
  

Captain:  
    
And yet they're not here, with one exception.  
  

Steward:  
    
Many died before at the Bragollach, or in the retreating actions of the subsequent years.  
  

Captain: [looking at him directly]  
    
And I repeat: with one exception, those Rangers who rode at my command in that hour are not here, nor those who fell beside us in the Fen. And yet you are.  
  
[the Steward looks away. Simultaneously asking:]  
  

Beren:  
Teler Maid:  
    
Why not?  
  
[the two Rangers look downcast and upset, but say nothing]  
  

Captain:  
    
It's -- complicated. We -- as has been said before, are a disreputable and disorderly lot -- well, you've seen it, Beren, though Maiwe's only heard us before, and not everyone is quite comfortable associating with us. Or at least, not on any sort of formal and regular basis.  
  

Beren:  
    
But you said people follow him anyway. Like with the battles.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but it's all most informal, and . . .  
  

Warrior: [filling in]  
    
We got into trouble for it. Some people aren't very happy at the idea of having the Powers possibly angry at them again.  
  
[aside]  
  
\--Like me.  
  

Captain:  
    
There's a sort of unofficial official recognition which is quickly disavowable, and tends to alternate between unthinking enthusiasm for projects -- no, not us, I meant with the reenactments -- and a wait-and-see-if-They-toss-him-or-them-in-the-non-existent-dungeons, first, attitude. Essentially folk ask him for advice and help, and he makes recommendations and doesn't ask anyone else for anything now. Except us.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I do not quite follow you.   
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
I do. Sounds like a repeat of Nargothrond, again.  
  

Captain:  
    
Not quite that bad.  
  

Beren:  
    
Doesn't he mind?   
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
I'm not the one to speak on that.  
  

Steward:  
    
Nor I.  
  

Beren: [grim]  
    
That's why he got so upset when he thought I turned on him.  
  
[pause]  
  
That's why you're all here tearing up the gods' living room on my behalf.  
  
[to the Sea-elf]  
  
Sorry, I didn't mean to talk around you. Long story.  
  

First Guard: [reassuring]  
    
We'll not desert him, Beren.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I -- would almost hazard you mean that some have forsaken Lord Ingold . . . ?  
  

Beren:   
    
You'd be right.  
  

Captain:  
    
But it is, as Beren says, a long story, and another -- or at least a lot later in this one. --Which I am going to resume telling, in the absence of objection. I was not doing terribly well at that point, but it was crucial to keep on as speedily as possible, not simply for my sake but because of the likelihood of pursuit. They kept changing me from rider to rider for the horses' endurance, and despite the unwillingness of my followers for reasons of sentiment, even to Edrahil, for reason of principle. And he kept saying something, and I assumed he was trying to apologize, and wanted to tell him to just stop, dammit, but that would have taken too much breath. And then I realize that what he's actually doing is the same thing our medic did, as best he can manage, having memorized, or nearly, his words when they were patching me up. And at that point I stopped worrying, for I knew things would be all right.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But -- might you not have died despite, before ever you might be brought back to safe haven?  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, yes.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then why say you 'twould be well?  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
Because he is mad.  
  
[she gives him an affronted glance]  
  

Captain:  
    
Because I knew from that that he was recollected enough to withstand panic and other disorder and to make sure that all the rest would make it home safely, whether I returned there or here. And I was right. There was a motion to cut directly over some rough country that gave a more direct route to Fingolfin's command post--  
  
[to Beren]  
  
\--not the one you're thinking of, the castle at Eithel wasn't built at that point -- and strongly urged in the interest of time -- and does he give in? Not at all.  
  
"We are not crows," he retorts, and refuses on the grounds that none of them knew the ground, and if it were passable, or for horses, or for a casualty, and insists upon the longer, surer route, and carries them all by force of cold reason, despite the fact that not one of them but wished it were he bleeding there, not me.  
  

Steward: [irritably]  
    
Have you any idea how many times you've changed tense already?  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, you get more tense each time. You'll not change the subject that way. --So instead he sends one warrior by that shortcut, and another to go breakneck (only hopefully not) ahead of us, with my horse for a spare, and the rest together to bring me back as quick as they might without killing me altogether, while whichever messenger might reach the encampment first should bring a company of medical personnel to intercept us along this our known route. Exactly what I would have done, had matters been the other way round. Though I only learnt of this after the fact, not being fully-conscious at the time. And when that happens, and it's not only those he requested but Himself as well, trying to keep me alive, he says nothing whatsoever about the mission nor his own actions, but only stays out of the way until they dared to take me back home at last.  
  

Teler Maid: [extremely grim]  
    
What said you, to account for your wound then?  
  

Captain:  
    
I was still unconscious. They might have said a lot, but oddly enough they didn't -- for some reason they elected to give him benefit of honour, to see what he would say before making their report.  
  
[the Noldor Ranger smiles wryly]  
  
And what he said was essentially what I have said, though with longer words and more of 'em. No attempt to justify himself, nor discredit any claim they might make, by reason of their having been back of our position, nor to assign any of it to me. He made a full admission to the Princes, not in private mind you, but before all of the folk of Finarfin and Fingolfin as well, and submitted himself to whatever judgment our lord and his siblings should come to, but first, meanwhile, he said, he intended to learn what he might of healing for himself, that never should he be in such a situation again and of so little use. --And so, of course, they gave him more jobs like that, and harder, but didn't manage to get rid of him that way.  
  
[longish pause -- the Sea-elf glowers at the subject of the story, clearly not as amused as the teller]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Why do you not speak, sir? Surely you are not content with a tale told by another not you, still less when it is of yourself it does tell!  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
The trouble is this -- shall I agree, and seem more arrogant yet? or correct, and seem a most ungracious ingrate? Better to be silent, and leave the matter in some doubt at least.  
  
[several of the Guards snicker at this, and she gives them a sharp Look, and then a quick glance back, her expression becoming more thoughtful]  
  

Teler Maid: [still taunting, though]  
    
What would you correct, then, my lord?  
  

Steward:  
    
It was made implicit, though not said outright, that I added healer to the chronicle of my accomplishments -- when, in fact, I merely completed a course of studies in that field.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
And is that not the same thing -- for you?  
  

Steward:  
    
My teacher and the chief of that avocation thought not so. She made -- if you will pardon the unseemly-yet-appropriate human levity, gentles all -- no bones about my lack of anything remotely akin to the proper empathic spirit required of a Healer. "Perfect pitch is necessary but far from sufficient," and "You can't improvise to save your life, can you? -- so how do you expect to save anyone else's?" were phrases I very swiftly tired of hearing.  
  
[the Sea-elf giggles -- then checks abruptly and gives him a wary glance, continuing to scrutinize his expression covertly]  
  

Soldier:  
    
Yes, but she didn't forbid you from attempting, Sir.  
  

Steward:  
    
With the proviso there was none else certified at hand. "You probably won't kill anyone who wouldn't die otherwise," is hardly endorsement.  
  

Soldier: [sighing]  
    
It could have been worse, though -- back after the Glorious Battle, when there was such a rush to become Healers among people who'd never have thought of it otherwise, she told my lady to stick with the books, for at least parchment and quills were dead and couldn't be hurt.  
  
[the Steward winces, then looks up as if struck by a sudden thought]  
  

Steward:  
    
Wait -- if I remember correctly, there was a request for a new lighting arrangement and several pieces of furniture were commissioned for your apartments at about that time. Not coincidence, I gather?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Well, after we cleaned up what was left of the desk she did admit that a temper which built up like a blast in a kiln for a fortnight after being set down fairly, probably wasn't suited for medical work. There's patience and there's patience, love, I told her, and they're both important, but you've the sort that can spend months hunting down references or laying down a page of colors in lines as thin as thread, not the sort that takes being thwarted well, or criticism as other than insult.  
  

Steward:  
    
That, I have not either.  
  

Soldier:  
    
True, sir -- but you just get more and more sarcastic, instead of breaking things.  
  

Steward:   
    
Nor should that be most welcome at an invalid's bedside.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but that only bothers you because you're an insane perfectionist. If all you're doing is patching someone up so they'll last long enough to get into competent hands, calling them six times a fool the whiles hasn't any detrimental effect that I've ever noticed. Makes 'em more determined to prove you wrong by surviving -- right?  
  
[at this the Noldor Ranger, who has been trying to look oblivious with decreasing success, ducks his head with a chagrinned expression]  
  

Ranger:  
    
That was a calculated risk, Sir, only -- I miscalculated. You didn't have to say it shouldn't make a damned bit of difference, since I had rocks for brains anyway.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but you never assumed after that that an enemy without a bow wasn't a danger from a distance -- and made damned sure that everyone else took the danger of slingstones seriously, too. And being angry at me kept you awake despite your concussion until we were able to get you to a fort and a bone-drill within safe walls.  
  
[his subordinate gives him a rueful smile while Beren supresses the sort of expression most people evince at the thought of trephanation]  
  
Could have been worse, though -- you remember that report about the accident in the storage caves, right?  
  

Ranger: [grinning]  
    
The one where a bystander was quoted as saying that no one was ever going to ignore safety precautions down there again, not so much for fear of severing an artery, as for dread of learning yet more formulations of "I told you so, did I not?"  
  

Steward: [with a slight edge]  
    
I -- was panicked, as I'd never had call to employ that training ere then, far less upon something so grave as that!  
  

Captain: [ignoring him]  
    
That's the one -- my personal favorite was, "However, given precedent, I am inexorably forced to the conclusion that the majority of you will adjudge it to have been a random occurrence, and not until as many times have passed will you concede that indeed my reasoned apprehensions were well-founded -- but no matter, for it's clear as well that we've no shortage of overconfident idiots within the City, and can well-stand attrition of the same."  
  
[the Steward leans back against Huan, looking up at the ceiling with a resigned expression]  
  
\--But I don't remember any sarcasm in word or tone when I was delirious with poison, or after when I woke at last without the taste of my own blood in my throat, and found a solemn and uncommonly quiet still-chief Counsellor waiting to beg my forgiveness -- and give me report of the cygnets I'd been watching all through the season, though the thought of him crawling through cattails to view the nest was so strange I admit I laughed, to my immediate regret . . .  
  
[rubbing at his side with a grimace of recollection]  
  
. . . and tell me that my fear, that I had not spoken aloud to him, nor any Healer betrayed to him, was groundless -- that he had Seen me seeing them in flight, before the bulrushes should have blown to seed, and so I knew that I should not remain purblind, nor long, which not even the King had been able to assure me of. --A great deal of awkwardness, and much formality, and more embarassment -- but nothing of mockery whatsoever.  
  

Steward: [distantly]  
    
You forgot confusion, at being thanked and commended for bringing all home without further casualty or loss. I thought you were still delirious. Or that your vision was so affected you'd mistaken me for one of your officers.  
  
[the Captain only smiles]  
  

Teler Maid: [with a doubtful expression]  
    
And that is the way of it that you did find friendship?  
  

Captain:  
    
No, far from it. Courtesy, yes -- courtesy, concern, deference, exaggerated deference even, but these things do not add up to the other. We were not friends until after our first visit to Doriath.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I think I have overheard that name upon a time or three. There are mountains there, are there not?  
  

Beren:  
    
There's no mountains in Doriath. I think you're thinking of my country, Dorthonion.  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning]  
    
That sounds not right either. Is that where the horses are?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [knowingly]  
    
Ah, you mean Dor-lomin. That's surrounded by mountains. I've been there.  
  
[The Sea-elf looks over challengingly towards the Steward]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Did you not know that, my lord?  
  

Steward: [after visible hesitation]  
    
\--Indeed I did, Maiwe.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then for what did you not correct me?  
  

Steward:  
    
There was no need for me to speak. The children had answered you well.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Hah, then, my questions are but fit for children, do you say?  
  

Steward:  
    
No. Only that the younger were swifter to speak. And that is often true, in many things, but I mean no slight to you or any other.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But I think--  
  

Captain: [interrupting]  
    
Did you want to hear the rest of it, or do you just want to fight, hm?  
  
[she scowls, but stops her needling for the moment]  
  
All right, then. --We'd gone to the domain of His Majesty's kindred -- though we hadn't acclaimed him as King yet, that happened after, when we set up our own capital at Nargothrond -- and now that we were settled and the border growing ever more secure that all of the Noldor Houses were cooperating--  
  

Teler Maid: [interrupting, grim]  
    
I am still very much angered concerning that.   
  

Captain: [evenly]  
    
I know, and if you cut me off one more time to say that again, I am going to start calling you "Rail," Sea-Mew. Trust me, we all know you're not happy with us for making peace with the Feanorians, and neither was the lord of the realm we were about to visit, when he found out either. But you're never going to hear the end of this if you don't stop expressing your feelings on the subject every time it comes up.  
  

Teler Maid: [scowling]  
    
You--  
  
[stopping abruptly, disgruntled; she looks down, letting her hair fall in front of her face]  
  

Captain:  
    
What?  
  

Teler Maid: [through her teeth]  
    
I would have said you do not like me longer, but I cannot.  
  

Captain:  
    
To borrow another mortal saying, --no kidding. --Because the northern lands were growing safer, we thought it a good time to go and pay a visit of state to the Lord and Lady of Doriath, and so we went to pay our respects and make offers of such alliance as they might wish, and to see the legendary Thousand Caves and their still more legendary rulers. We rode through the forest -- but that word doesn't mean anything like the same, here -- those trees were older than any that ever were in Valinor, and taller than any but the Two themselves, and so powerful that all of us, even those who love the woods, were daunted entering their shade.  
  

Teler Maid: [disbelieving]  
    
Even you?  
  

Captain:  
    
Even me. And then we came to the main gate of Menegroth, where Queen Melian with her nightingales on her shoulders and King Elu Greycloak were waiting as tall and fair as trees themselves to greet their grand-niece and nephews, and--  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Who?!?  
  
[before he can answer]  
  
You do not mean kin in the sense that we are kin, but kin?  
  

Captain: [struggling to keep a straight face]  
    
That sounds like something Beren would say. Ah, --yes.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do not foible with words! What is this, that the rulers of the Old Country are parents' siblings to any of the Noldor, when they must be of the same kindred as him\--  
  
[gesturing to the Youngest Ranger]  
  
\--unless--  
  
[she frowns, looking around at them]  
  
\--you do not -- surely you mean not -- but how might it happen? -- but--  
  
[pulling herself together]  
  
It can only be that you do mean that my lady's uncle is yet well and free and does rule and they but call him by another name! Am I not right?  
  

Captain:  
    
Of course.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What befell Lord Elwe that he came not hence?   
  

Fourth Guard: [mischievously]  
    
That's a long st--  
  
[his immediate neighbors suppress him quickly]  
  

Captain:  
    
Short version is, he ran into the Lady Melian and that's why she didn't come back either.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Who is she?  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you recall the stories about the Maia who went missing in the Old Country whilst exploring there?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I remember some such tale. --Not well.  
  

Captain:  
    
That's her. So there was this incredible reunion--  
  
[as the Steward shakes his head]  
  
\--well, I'm not sure what else to call it, Edrahil, what would you recommend?  
  

Beren:  
    
We used to call them family reunions even if not everybody there had ever met everyone else because of not being born in the same place.  
  

Captain:  
    
Thank you. --And welcomes, and introductions, and talk, and Themselves brought out the gifts they'd made for their aunt and uncle, and there were thanks, and more talk, and then we were most graciously invited inside, which we'd all been most anxious to see, having heard so much in the way of rumour, and not having believed half of it as to what the Thousand Caves were really like. I'll tell you all about it in detail some other time, Maiwe, since everyone else already knows, and I could spend months and not be anywhere near through.  
  
[Beren makes a quiet exclamation of disappointment]  
  
But you've been there, lad.  
  

Beren:  
    
Not like you all have. The first time was rushed and all I saw was the throne room and a back staircase and the doors on my way out, and the second time was longer but not all that much and even crazier. And--  
  
[he breaks off]  
  

Teler Maid: [curious]  
    
What?  
  

Beren: [with a touch of reluctance]  
    
Even if I had been there like them, not the way it was, it would have been different. I wouldn't have seen it the way they did, or been treated the same, even if I was welcome. I would have always been a stranger, like at Nargothrond, because I was mortal.  
  
[beside him the Warrior touches his arm in an apologetic gesture]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [troubled]  
    
But your lady could tell you.  
  

Beren: [wistful]  
    
Yeah, but she's so mad at them all that it isn't easy to get her to talk about it, because when she does, even when she isn't starting out to yell about them, that's what ends up happening, and everything she does talk about she ends up tearing into like you wouldn't believe.  
  
[running his hand through his hair in a frustrated gesture]  
  
I mean, I know it can't have been all bad for a thousand-whatever years, that she had to love it there or she wouldn't be so hellishly angry at her parents, relatives, and all the court and the entire population of Doriath for treating her that way, but it's like -- I -- I try to remind her about how she was before, when we were together in Neldoreth the first time, and it's like that doesn't even exist for her any more. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't gotten killed, if we'd stayed there. She didn't actually ever say that they deserved having the Wolf break in on them, but -- I could tell -- it was like a thunderhead overhead, it was gonna break out sometime. Maybe she did say it to Melian, quietly, I don't know.  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
But, you know, with nobody paying attention to her, how was it gonna work if she came back to be Lady there? I guess I didn't think about that so much when I just wanted her to be safe. I don't guess that her father thought about that much either. Just wanting her back, but when she was, it wasn't her. --But Doriath was different too, because of what they did to her.  
  
[increasingly upset]  
  
She just kept saying one thing after another after another, and I think he would have given her his crown if that would have made her happy again, like she was before. But that couldn't happen, because of me. --She doesn't want to hear that from me, either.  
  

Teler Maid: [blinking]  
    
The daughter of the King of Doriath that is my lady Earwen's uncle?  
  
[the Ten nod or murmur assent, though their attention is on Beren]  
  

Beren: [making it be true by sheer force of will]  
    
I'm okay.  
  
[he pulls himself together, though his jaw is set rather hard]   
  

Teler Maid: [astounded]  
    
But -- your wife is my King's niece? Lord Olwe's long-lost brother is your lady's father?  
  
[Beren nods]  
  
What mad story is this?  
  

Beren:  
    
No, it's the truth.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I think we mean not the same by it. How did you come to find lost Lord Elwe, and what of his family and yours? That is what I did mean.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. --That's really a long, long story. I'm not sure I can explain it at all, let alone well, and they can do it better, but probably, and I'm not joking around this time, guys, you should talk to H-- Finrod about it, because he was around for more of it, he knows everybody, and he studies this kind of stuff. Um, I mean, Lord Ingold to you.  
  

Teler Maid: [sharply]  
    
I know that is also his name. I call him Ingold because that is what we called him mostly. Do you not think that I am ignorant, too!  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry. I didn't mean that, either. I just get confused by it still, so I didn't want to confuse you.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Ah.  
  
[reluctantly]  
  
I thank you, then. I will do so, when he does come back.  
  

Captain:  
    
All clear on that, now? We were in Doriath, at the Thousand Caves, which were fully as spectacular as local legend had painted them and more so, somewhat to the -- I guess you'd say chagrin, though mostly awe -- of us all, who'd assumed that tales of how much finer it was than anything we'd set up there were partly local patriotism and partly due to the fact that we still had fairly simple encampments at that date, visiting with King Olwe's brother and his Lady, and their daughter, who's now married to Lord Beren here, but wasn't then, since neither he nor any of his people had been born then.  
  
[to the Youngest Ranger before he has a chance to interrupt]  
  
\--Nor you neither, lad, since you weren't born yet either, though I think you said you'd a cousin there.  
  
[the junior officer nods agreement]  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Sindarin Ranger, very seriously]  
    
Was that the one with the giant fish?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [just as (un)seriously]  
    
No, that was Beren's, I think.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Ahem. Anyway, we were there for a long time, being feasted and furrowed for information and gawked at by everyone who'd not ventured out to meet us before, and everyone who had as well, I think, and if you think you were the object of undue curiosity in Nargothrond, lad, take my word (though it's little consolation) that it can be far worse. Though of course the most attention was upon our lord and his brothers and Lady Galadriel--  
  

Teler Maid: [interrupting]  
    
Who is that?  
  
[confused pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah. Right. That's the name that their sister goes by these days. It was a present from her husband, means the same as her old nickname, though Himself will tell you it means "Tree-girl" instead, just to make her laugh.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Lady Nerwen is married too? To whom?  
  
[the Captain and others look a bit taken aback at how much catching-up there is to do; before they can answer:]  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh, I know this one. The King's sister's husband is a lord of Tinuviel's kindred named Celeborn -- only I haven't met them, just heard about them -- on her father's side. Er, my wife's father's side, if that wasn't clear.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
He is one of us as well?  
  
[she is both surprised and triumphant, and gives the Steward a keen look before asking them]  
  
What is he like?  
  

Captain: [frowning]  
    
Serious, fair-minded, thinks things through carefully before acting and then acts decisively, very polite and rules his temper well -- though he does have one, make no mistake. --A lot like their father, in fact, were Lord Finarfin to become a warrior and commander of warriors, I'd hazard.  
  
[he looks at the Steward for confirmation of his assessment; his friend nods agreement.]  
  

Teler Maid: [uncertainly]  
    
They are not here, are they?  
  

Steward: [fervent]  
    
\--Stars, no. Not everything has gone as wrong as might.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--What did I just hear you say?  
  
[this gets him a very cool Look]  
  

Steward:  
    
That there are always exceptions, and that nothing can be relied upon to be constant.  
  

Captain:  
    
Damn, I thought I'd caught you. Good recovery.  
  

Teler Maid: [rubbing her temples]  
    
So -- if it is so that none but my lady's youngest children do remain in the Old Country, which of them does lead? For you said that it was Lord Ingold and Lady Nerwen of the House that were most foremost to arrange the efforts of the March -- then now he is dead does it fall to her last brother, or to her and her lord, to rule your folk in that City you have spoken of to me?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, in fact they're not there any longer.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Then where?  
  
[impatient]  
  
Must I ask and ask and ask, for every least thing?  
  

Captain: [a little tired-sounding]  
    
I'm sorry. I -- was thinking about how much telling this is going to take for all the relatives. It's a bit daunting. A lot daunting, really. --They took off a little while back on their own with some like-minded sorts and struck out over the Blue Mountains to explore and set up on their own and hadn't got back yet when the War hotted up.  
  

Beren:  
    
You call it a little while. I wouldn't.  
  

Captain: [shrugs]  
    
I guess it was a while ago, at that.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I have missed a great deal of news.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, you have. So one night there was a grand celebration, partly for the Family, partly because it was the New Moon, and partly just because. And there was every sort of music and dance and diverse arts--  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
\--Magic, right?  
  
[the Sea-elf looks over at him curiously, sharing the strange look among his neighbors as the Youngest Ranger and the Warrior simultaneously elbow him in the ribs to make him shut up]  
  

Captain:  
    
That too, but also contests of skill and strength with weapons and other sport -- and the speaking of tales and verses besides, and we were all having the grandest time of it, being at home as it were with all the advantages of being someplace else -- in other words, somebody else looking after all the things that have to be done, plus it's unexpected and charming because it's all strange, but not so very -- and then I noticed that someone wasn't taking part--  
  
\--and then I noticedhim go skulking off along to the edges of the crowd, in spite of the fact that Master Daeron was playing then for the Queen herself to dance, and even a stone would not have been so deaf and blind as to turn away from that. So I followed him from the clearing before the Green Throne at Hirilorn's feet -- I'm putting that in for Beren, Maiwe: it's a huge tree beside the City of the Lord and Lady of Doriath, where they hold court, betimes, I'm not trying to confuse you with strange names, all right?  
  
[she nods]  
  
And to my great surprise I saw him go off to the shadows of the wood and stand there glaring at his harp, and brace it in his arms as though he were going to break it, and I deliberated calling to him, but then he changed his mind before my eyes, and went back to the gathering and looked about as though seeking out someone in particular, and then goes up to a villager that to my knowledge had never spoken with any of us before, of a party come from great distance to the celebration, and offers the harp to the stranger as a gift. And then -- still unawares that I was shadowing him -- he left the clearing again and returned to the Thousand Caves, quite unobserved by any other, all being under Queen Melian's spell and the spell of the flute--  
  
[to Beren]  
  
\--even us, though not quite the same way it happened to you -- and I, being much troubled by what I had seen, followed. He wasn't hard to find -- there was no one else in the place, everyone was out on the greensward enjoying themselves; I found him in the grove the Queen had made, sitting by the fountains looking at the water and not seeing it, so to speak.  
  
"What -- is -- wrong?" I asked him, like that, as forcefully as I might. And he looks up at me, not quite seeing me either, and answers, "I am here, and she is there, and the Ocean is between us." And I said, "Oh," not expecting that at all, and not knowing anything else to say, and he pulls himself together a bit, and returns, "Or were you asking something else entirely, sir?"  
  
[he glances at the Steward, who is sitting with his chin resting on his forearms, looking off with a resigned expression]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What said you?  
  

Captain:  
    
Nothing. I had, with my usual and quite mundane foresight taken care to provide myself with a pitcher of wine and two cups, and also a few sundry small edibles from the varied spread outside--  
  

Youngest Ranger: [aside at large]  
    
I heard people wondered if a bear had visited the tables.  
  

Captain:  
    
It was not that much, Lieutenant, and I was merely implementing the lesson you shouldn't have forgotten, that one secures resources as they are available.  
  

Beren:  
    
I think those rule each other out, actually.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Which was it, then, sir?  
  

Ranger: [aside, but not discreet]  
    
\--Bear.  
  
[the Steward gives a quick nod]  



	38. Scene IV.xiii - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Captain: [ignoring them]  
    
So I poured him a cup, and while I was unrolling the cloth -- and it wasn't a tablecloth, whatever these louts tell you -- he's holding the wine, looking at it, and at me, wondering when the joke was going to happen, and I poured myself a cupful, and he kept on watching me, very wary, and I, in a stroke of, if you will allow me to say so, brilliance, made the toast to absent friends. And he whispered, "Yes," and drank with me, and so we had our own little feast on the steps of the dais, under the golden trees, and we talked. And listened. And I learned that the noble Edrahil, esteemed counselor of the eldest of Finarfin's scions and lord entrusted with the most vital matters of our lord's household, and accounted of no small skill with word or note either, considered himself a failure and a squanderer of his time and a miserable excuse for an Elf besides.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Indeed.  
  

Captain: [disregarding her cold tone]  
    
Indeed. For, so he said, he had thought himself excellent, and although he was willing to concede the Vanyar our superiors in song (though naught else of skill) and to be accounted in the second rank after the children of the King (meaning in this case our first lord, Finwe)  
  
[with a quick glance to make sure Beren understands]  
  
\--he had never been content to allow any other might be his better, nor rival, and yet here so many were his equals, and it was easy as breathing to them, for all that they had not the same scholarship here (meaning there) and he could not dismiss it as but a rustic sort of music, and of a different kind, and hence no competition, for he'd heard compositions of the greatest, like Elemmire, learned in a few hearings by the Doriathrin and changed into their own modes and sung back with the most elaborate variations. And that was many, not a few, before ever he should speak of Daeron, whose mastery he had no more hope of equaling than he had of the Powers' --  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
See? I can do your style as well as your tone of voice pretty fairly, hm?  
  

Steward: [grimly]  
    
You're just remembering it.  
  

Captain:  
    
Not just. There's skill and effort involved.  
  
[to the Sea-elf]  
  
And I couldn't figure out what this had to do with you, and I wanted to say something about him conceding that the gods could manage to do something better than us, but I restrained myself.  
  
[raising an eyebrow, as the Steward visibly restrains from speaking in turn]  
  
\--Of course, my mouth was full at the time. And anyway he soon cleared that up talking about how he'd constantly made light of your pipe-playing and your people's songs and how everyone and everything here made him remember you, in spite of the fact that the cultures were so different, and he had been so thoughtless not to realize that his words to you would have had the same effect on you as Lord Enedir's telling him to stop wasting his time on that for which he was not suited to him, only worse, for his family thought him much talented in painting and would have had him study that, but he had never praised any deed of yours at all.  
  
[she snorts and tosses her head at his words, her eyes very hard at the memories, as he continues in the same mild nostalgic vein]  
  
I remember being most confused over his berating himself for his cruelty in deriding you as childish for skipping, and climbing in trees, and not understanding what that had to do with the Moon Feast at all, though I agreed as I had all along.  
  
[looking meaningfully at Beren]  
  
And he says that who was he, after all, to declare what was childish, and what was unfitting of the Eldar, when our lord's eldest cousin and the King of this land's own daughter had been up in an elm the day we arrived, and but a day before had enlisted all that she could find unoccupied into a complicated game of tag that involved, among other steps, skipping. And he'd attempted to explain it as having some deep metaphysical and ritual significance, but when he inquired of Lady Galadriel-also-known-as-Nerwen what it meant, she answered, after she'd got her breath back, that it but made it much funnier, to have to obey the rules of the dance, even if it makes the game harder.  
  

Teler Maid: [bemused]  
    
Skipping. --Lady Nerwen.  
  
[he nods seriously, while she shakes her head in amazement]  
  
Not even your sister skipped with me, though she never chid me for it, nor for scaling the bannisters as though 'twas a hawser. --Nor did you.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, she would have if she'd been there. Joined her lady in the game, I mean. Princess Luthien's hard to argue with, as Barahirion could tell you.  
  
[Beren hides a grin]  
  
Skipping -- backwards -- and with her hair falling down all over the place like Treelight, and laughing "like a loon"--  
  
[he nudges his companion, who affects indifference]  
  
\--till she could hardly stand up, by the end of it, and the rest of us; not much better. Though I did notice that she wasn't waving off offers of a supporting arm as we would all expect, when it was young Celeborn doing the offering. And nobody saying anything scathing about being silly, or shouldn't we be less frivolous, or was this any way for adult Eldar to behave?  
  
[to Beren]  
  
I think that the realblow was when your lady's parents lamented the fact that they'd been too busy with organizing the feast to join in.  
  
[Beren joins the Teler girl in looking both amused and half-disbelieving]  
  
And he kept on explaining about how he realized now how wrong he had been to disdain you, Sanderling, and I kept on agreeing with him all the while, and yet he didn't once get angry with me for presuming to do so. --So, did I tell it to your satisfaction?  
  

Steward:  
    
No.  
  

Captain:  
    
What have I left out?  
  

Steward:  
    
That you spent the whole of the time listening to my complaints without complaint of your own, when you had far rather been at the dancing and under the stars and moon, nor made reproach for having missed it, but only to jest about having failed to secure enough wine for such a thirsty night of talk when the flagon ran dry.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, it wasn't all on one side, I wasn't just commiserating with you -- I do recall ranting as well about the fact everything was strange and much of what I knew didn't apply to animals in this continent (which is to say, that continent) and that I'd tell people to do things and they'd listen and go off and do something else altogether, and so on.  
  

Steward:  
    
Truly, I did not notice--  
  

Teler Maid: [breaking in]  
    
But of course you did not notice -- for when did another's concerns ever concern you? Nay, Edrahil, you need not even say so much!  
  

Captain: [mildly]  
    
I think he meant it as a common courtesy, Curlew.  
  

Steward:  
    
Nonetheless it was equally the truth -- against my own cares I fear yours mattered not, so that you might have complained of mutinies or plagues of vampire bats and I'd not have noticed while I bemoaned my state. Moreover you have omitted what followed -- how upon the morrow I was so dismayed to have disclosed my cares and uncertainties to your hearing that I avoided you for days thereafter, all the while in a fear that you'd make merry over my admissions among your friends, or presume upon me in public fellowship before all, and spent the whiles in an agony of regret and shame over my weakness.  
  

Captain: [bland]  
    
The whiles Ithought it was because I'd tried to convince you to join a proposed excursion to the southern marches and then perhaps if the weather held good out to the site of the First Battle. --I still think it would have cheered you up.  
  

Steward: [snorting]  
    
To be trapped with you, Captain Beleg, the Lady Galadriel and a collection of the least-sane followers of Elu Thingol and House Finarfin combined, for weeks on end? --And innumerable trees, of course.  
  

Captain:  
    
There would have been serious cultural and historical stuff too, visiting Amon Ereb.  
  
[the Steward just Looks at him]  
  
\--And bugs, and no furniture, and rain, and songs sung most uncarefully of technicalities, and whatever we managed to scare up for dinner, and you could have complained for weeks on end while enjoying the whole business just as you did in after years.  
  

Steward:  
    
That was after, and not unconnected with the events you insist upon recounting.  
  

Captain: [very smug]  
    
Got you.  
  

Steward:  
    
What?  
  

Captain:  
    
You finally admitted to a liking for cross-country excursions and hunting trips and the whole outdoors life.  
  
[the other grimaces in self-directed disgust]  
  
\--What did I say, people?  
  
[there are groans and resigned sighs from around the circle]  
  
Pay up, now.  
  
[one by one the other eight find or manifest some small article of value and hand over the items to their commander, who pockets them all into his wallet, while the subject of the bet affects dignified obliviousness to it all.]  
  

Beren: [aside, to the Sea-elf]  
    
That's a wager.  
  

Teler Maid: [shaking her head]  
    
I still do not see the purpose of it.  
  

Steward:  
    
Would you just finish the confounded story?  
  

Captain:  
    
You mean you want me to tell it?  
  

Steward: [not fooled by the innocent query]  
    
No, I want it over with.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, all right. --As he said, for a couple of days he moped about, dodging out of my sight and worrying me still more -- though not much since I had some of my people looking out for him meanwhiles -- and then abruptly and quite unpredictably abandoned that policy by coming upon me unexpectedly and collaring me, and demands without any sort of explanation, "What do you think you're about?"  
  

Steward:  
    
You exaggerate shamelessly. I did not lay a hand on you, and you knew quite well at the time the matter whereof I spoke.  
  

Captain:  
    
So? And I meant "collared" figuratively, the way it's usually meant.   
  
[continuing]  
  
\--And I said, "Er, what?" and he snarls back, "Why did you tell him I was not doing well?" and I said, "Because you aren't. Are you?" And that shut him up quite, for a bit at least. And then he gives me a look that would have frozen boiling water solid and asks me, "What are you looking to get out of this?" and I said, "--I beg your pardon?"   
  
[the Steward clears his throat]  
  
Well, what I actually said was, "Er, what?" again, which admittedly doesn't sound so intelligent but means the same thing--  
  
[his former colleague giggles before recollecting herself]  
  
\--and while I was trying to figure out which of several possible meanings of "this" was intended he reiterated, in very simple syllables and extremely slowly and then over again in Quenya too--  
  
[the Steward's expression becomes more pained]  
  
"What -- do -- you -- want -- from -- me?" And I told him the plain truth again: "That you not be so gloomy."  
  
"Why?" says he, which was such an idiotic question that I gave it an equally foolish answer: "Then you won't have to spoil any more perfectly fine evenings by moping off in a corner." At which point he gets all haughty again and tells me, "If you minded it so much, then you ought have said something at the time."  
  
"If I had, I would have," I told him. I swear it felt like the Helcaraxe in there, for all 'twas midsummer. So, of course, I made a joke: "The House of Finwe already has one grim, bad-tempered Elf -- we don't really need another Caranthir about, do we?" Which threw him for a moment, and then he comes back ever so smoothly, "Belike you will be less high-humoured yourself when you have heard my message for you: our lord would speak next to you, and upon the moment."  
  
"I doubt it," said I.   
  
"You have not the Sight, I think," he tells me, just like that, and I said back, "Don't need it -- he's just going to tell me that you've agreed to the mission I suggested and ask me to take care of the necessary arrangements for the journey, and I'm going to tell him I've already done so." And he stands there scowling at me like a pup that's got out of its nest and can't find its way back to the litter, ready to try to chew your fingers off when you try to fetch the poor mite from behind a cask or under a chest or wherever it's backed itself into. "Just mind you don't get me shot, this time," I said as a joke, and he stops looking angry all of an instant and gives me a look completely guilt-stricken, which wasn't what I'd meant for to happen at all.  
  
[he stops, and does not go on, despite the Sea-elf's expectant look; the Steward clears his throat]  
  

Captain: [easily]  
Your turn. I'm tired of talking.  
  

Steward:  
    
That is so unamusing that it cannot even be considered a joke.  
  
[continued silence -- he gives the Captain an even sterner Look, to no avail.]  
  

Captain:  
    
You said you wanted it finished. Well, prove it.  
  
[after a moment of impasse the other capitulates, shaking his head]  
  

Steward: [acerbic tone]  
    
This lunatic stood there grinning, and while I was distracted with the consideration of my prospects for surviving a journey halfway 'cross Beleriand with a mad Elf who deemed it a fine jest to be shot, he declared to me, "You'd best not, for I'll haunt you if you do, I vow it," and dealt me a blow that sent me reeling to the wall before turning to go answer his own summons.  
  

Teler Maid: [troubled, to the Captain]  
    
For what did you hit him, that were not angered with him beforetimes?  
  

Captain: [snorting with disgust]  
    
I clapped him on the shoulder, is all. I didn't realize that the shock of it would knock him off balance like that.  
  

Ranger:  
    
You have to admit, sir, you're the only one that was ever so bold to slap Lord Edrahil on the back. Not even the King does that.  
  

Steward: [extremely austere]  
    
Finrod Felagund is a most civil, courteous and gracious lord whose humour never exceeds the limits of decorum; I leave you to your own conclusions as to the corollary.  
  
[picking up as though he'd been telling the story all along]  
  
\--And so I found it even as he'd said, that my gear should have been readied and horses called and the other riders all waiting upon us, and so we gave thanks and farewell to our hosts and companions and betook ourselves upon the journey to the High King's holdings. And for those days and nights I sulked exceedingly and my wrath that I should be so judged and dealt with for mine own good, as were but a child, contended for precedence with indignation that a mere fighter's counsel should count as high as mine in our sovereign's sight (and also that manifestly should be deserved), and that his friendship should be so divided (for so I saw it) and both of those with the truth, which was that answer that I might not deny, and relief that the King should know and take thought for the burden of my griefs, and anger that it had been made known thus and in my despite, and I be reproached for keeping mine own counsel and my cares so long; nor was I good company the whiles, as might well be imagined--  
  

Captain: [impatiently]  
    
\--You take so long about even the simplest story. What happened was this: we kept having horse races -- which we always did, when the ground was level and clear, as a way to make the journey more fun, just as you'll recall from here -- and he kept losing and getting more annoyed, mostly because he wasn't concentrating on the course but getting distracted by his inner turmoil, and so his mount kept getting put out with him and back at him by doing things like going forward at an angle or splashing through the muddiest parts that could be found, and annoying everyone else -- and I ignored it all on the assumption that he'd get over it soon enough.  
  
[with a sidelong glance]  
  
\--How hard is that to recount?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do not be fooled -- he but did so of a purpose, that you would resume!  
  

Captain: [smiling]  
    
I know. We're almost done. He'd said nothing for the whole of the day -- if you can believe it -- and we'd almost reached the end, when we stopped to watch the sunset on the water, and he rode off a little ways on his own, so of course I went along. After a bit he asks, "Am I truly like Lord Caranthir?" which I wasn't expecting.  
  
"Not so much," I said back, which was the truth. And he didn't say anything, so I said, "You're not really giving up your music, are you?" And he answers, "It was not sturdy enough for the journeying that lies ahead of us." I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that -- I mean, he'd managed to bring the instrument unbroken over the Grinding Ice, after all -- but I wanted to get on to the High King's hall before it got too late so instead of getting into that, I said, "You could make another that will be."  
  
"I don't want your pity," he says to me, not angry nor sharp nor anything of the sort.  
  
"I know," I told him. "I'm sorry." And he gave me a look to match the tone of voice, very plain, very straightforward, -- not like him at all, you'd probably say -- and returns, "Then since you will not rescind it, I must thank you for it." And She went down and we got back on the trail and went on from there.  
  
[silence]  
  

Teler Maid: [not entirely happy still]  
    
So it is of mercy that you did befriend him . . .  
  
[suddenly, rather fierce]  
  
For what do you spend so much of your time speaking but of him, when have you not your own lives and stories and deeds to be telling?  
  

Beren: [reasonable tone]  
    
But that's who you're really most interested in, and you know it and we know it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are unkind and do amuse yourselves at my expense, to find diversion in my folly.  
  

Fourth Guard: [earnest]  
    
Would you rather hear about the building of the City, Maiwe? I worked on the Gates: do you want to know about dressing stone so that a dry-set wall will line up perfectly and still appear completely natural from the outside? It isn't at all easy to make an ashlar facing look like weathered rock, you know, even though it does seem that it would be the easiest thing in the world to make broken stone look like broken stone.  
  

Teler Maid: [coldly]  
    
You do make sport of me.  
  

Captain:  
    
Do you mean you want us to talk about him, or you don't want us to talk about him?  
  
[somehow his former colleague finds her toes more interesting than anything else.]  
  
Sulking's also an option, I suppose.  
  
[she looks up at him with an angry expression]  
  

Steward: [tightly]  
    
You're not helping matters, you realize.  
  

Captain:  
    
On the contrary, that's exactly what we're doing.  
  

Steward: [disgruntled]  
    
I didn't ask for your assistance.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, not in so many words, no.  
  

Steward:  
    
Not in any words.  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't think we can make it worse, do you?  
  
[pause]  
  
Look, all you're doing is imitating a statue, and--  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Exaggeration--  
  

Captain: [not missing a beat]  
    
\--not by much, when the Sea-Mew wants to know what happened to change a self-centered, neurotically-insecure-yet-overconfident musician into an unselfish, self-effacing hero?  
  

Steward: [grit teeth]  
    
I am not any sort of a hero--!  
  

Ranger: [earnest]  
    
But you are, sir.  
  

Soldier:   
    
Even if we didn't see it before, we couldn't help it after Serech, when the King was down and you held us long enough for Beren's father to get there.  
  

Steward: [exasperated]  
    
What else could I have done?  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Run.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Given up and died.  
  

Captain:  
    
Forsaken your duty because it was hopeless, instead of proving that sometimes it's a good idea to have a pessimist in charge, since it comes as no surprise to him not just that things could go wrong, but that there's no hope of them going otherwise. Instead of the chap who was convinced that yes, we could easily take out Melkor-now-Morgoth, retake the Silmarils (ignoring the problem of the Gloomweaver), and make Endor into what Valinor ought to have been, all in time to hear his epics chronicling it at dinner.  
  
[looking over at the three youngest members of the group:]  
  
\--We were idiots, if you haven't realized that by now.  
  
[the object of their praises struggles with embarrassment, and then takes the offhand approach]  
  

Steward: [lightly]  
    
\--What became of him? He faded, for the most part, unmarked and unmourned, during the crossing of the Ice; when it became most eminently clear that a talent for remembering was of far more worth put to the accounting of consumables and not for the rehearsing of lore, and a gift of eloquence more valuable employed in passing on a leader's instructions than any new-fashioned verse of his own devising. What little was left of him did not survive the knowledge that his ambitions had set another far on the Westward path, in his own place -- or in the stead of a Northern destination -- and a hard reckoning of the worth of that exchange, listening for heartbeats in terror of silence. He did not return from that parley, and none missed him.  
  

Captain: [musing]  
    
\--Unregretted, perhaps, but not unnoticed. --Though I was late in recognizing it, I must admit. We were well-settled along the Lake by the time it occurred to me that you were saying things because they were the sorts of things that you would have said, and well aware of how arrogant and pompous they sounded, and allowing folk to laugh at you not to have the better laugh on them, but as a strange way of joining in with the general mirth.  
  

Steward: [loftily]  
    
What curious notions you do come up with.  
  

Teler Maid: [narrowing her brows]  
    
Do you know what he would say, when gone from among the House, and neither Lord Ingold nor any other of the family to reprove him present, -- how he would declare that there was scarce any art whatsoever in the making of gardens, for so much did the plants do of their own, without care, and to but arrange them in differing place was the play of children, not of minds full grown--  
  
[in a rush, to the Steward]  
  
\--and when I did say that it was insult to the Earthqueen to say such you would but disclaim that it was honor to her to say that no hand could better hers, and your friends laughed at me behind their wine-cups, but can you say here that you did not twist words like hawsers?--  
  
[not waiting for him to answer]  
  
\--and of those who followed the Rider that there was little greater skill in those that did hunt than among the beasts themselves, for so much did they do indeed, that it should take no thought nor speech, nay, for must be silent when stalking prey--  
  
[to the Steward again]  
  
\--and that was much of mirth between your fine lord Maglor and his brothers, and all of the general bandying of words about, in that so-witty company -- but you did think it, I knew then and know it to be true!  
  
[to the Captain, demanding:]  
  
It does not astonish you to learn that?  
  

Captain:  
    
Er -- no, I can't say it did when he told me.  
  

Teler Maid: [outraged]  
    
Is there nothing that he might do or yet have done, that would aggrieve you then?  
  

Captain: [rueful]  
    
What, you think it's easy, having a compulsively-hypercritical despondent type who's harder on himself than anyone else for a friend?  
  
[she shoots a Look at the Steward in turn]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
And you say naught to that?  
  

Steward: [very dry]  
    
Rest assured, I would contradict him, -- if there were any point on which I might. But there is, for good and ill, nothing I can say.  
  
[she snorts angrily, her lips tightening]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Only that is not so. There are many things you might say, many things hard and sharp and pointed as swords, cold as iron, burning as fire, that should wound the spirit, -- only you choose not so, but let them make game of you, and answer not, but smile from your high vantage point and fancy yourself most generous, that you withhold your mockery! And these are grateful for even the crumbs of your notice that you so jealously grant them!   
  
[Beren and the Youngest Ranger exchange a startled glance]  
  

Beren: [whispering, to the Youngest Ranger]  
    
Whoa, does that sound familiar or what?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [nodding, as quietly]  
    
It sounds like the Fall of the Noldor, the bits with Feanor.  
  
[through the rest of her tirade they carry on a low-level exchange of nervous banter, making it increasingly harder for the nearer of the Ten to behave]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Yeah.  
  

Teler Maid: [glaring around at the rest of them]  
    
You sit at his feet in eagerness and hope that he should approve ye and make remark of your words as though he were Lord Ingold himself!  
  

Captain: [straightfaced, not showing any anger in response]  
    
Oh no, we never get them mixed up. They don't look anything alike. --Sound different, too.  
  
[this just makes her lose her temper still more]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You know whereof I mean! You are pleased even to have his mockery, as though you merited no more, as though such attention were honour of itself and enow for your content!  
  

Youngest Ranger: [aside]  
    
Only we never thought of him as a god.  
  

Beren: [aside]  
    
Speak for yourself.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Are you blind, then, that can see all else so clearly, and nothing of this? What fog misleading has he set upon the lot of ye, that should be so fondly led and misled that have not my excuse for it?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Well, perhaps a demi-god.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are even yourselves Noldor, -- well, for the most part -- and that high precedence he cannot claim against you. --Oh, but you came to the Light sooner than we -- and yet you left it fast enough in truth as well!  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
I'm not really one to say, though, being mortal.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Or is it that you believe in his assurance of greater wisdom, and that you less skilled in words, less truly are the Quendi than he and his honored companions?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
You met all the same Powers I did when we were alive.  
  

Beren:  
    
True.  
  

Teler Maid: [gesturing sweepingly]  
    
Only not any of ye has not the gift of thought nor song, but instead to it do add other skills, so far from diminished that are not bards or scribes!  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Except Morgoth.  
  

Beren: [quick headshake]  
    
Didn't meet him.  
  

Teler Maid: [impassioned, not noticing (or caring) that no one is disagreeing with her]  
    
But what of that which all must have to live, nor there might be speaking without?! Is it not so -- that to grow and catch the stuff of food, of clothing, to make the things that must be had for other making, is that not as worthful as to make words and letters to hold them in?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [nodding slightly towards the Steward]  
    
\--He's not much like Queen Melian.  
  

Beren: [biting his lip]  
    
N--nope.  
  
[there is some suspicious coughing from his left as well, but Earwen's former servant is too caught up in her harangue to notice them.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Or why are things of stone more noble than the same designs when made in woven rushes, more worthy a vase than a basket, tell? Or why is a house of stone more noble than a ship of wood?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Nor Huan neither.  
  
[the Hound perks up his ears and rolls his eyes to look at them without lifting his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh, I don't know, you haven't heard Huan being sarcastic--  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Is there not no less skill in either, and so too in the makers of them?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Well -- perhaps so. But really I'd say--  
  

Beren: [interrupting, glancing at his neighbor on the left]  
    
\--Don't say it.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But--  
  

Beren:  
    
I know what you're gonna say. Don't.  
  

Teler Maid: [rhetorically]  
    
Well?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
You can't.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Have you not anything of respect left for the worth that is your own? But must you cede it all up to him, who does not give any back?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yes I can.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Prove it.  
  
[Beren looks apologetically at the Warrior, who is trying with supreme effort to keep a straight face, and leans over to try to whisper his guess too quietly for anyone else to overhear -- but the strain is too much and all three dissolve into sputters of laughter, drawing wrath upon themselves]  
  

Teler Maid: [snapping about to direct a furious Look their way]  
    
What do you mutter when I attend you not?  
  
[now the object of scrutiny from all about the circle, the culprits attempt to display a spirit of reform: the Warrior by straightening up, eyes front, the Sindarin Ranger by bowing his head apologetically under his commander's stern expression, and Beren by looking innocent. None of this works particularly well.]  
  
Pray, what of my words does so greatly amuse you?  
  
[she leans around to glare at them; Beren leans back, trying to stay out of the line of the glare]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
. . .  
  
[she reaches around behind him and pokes Beren hard, making him look at her guiltily]  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh -- we were just -- ah -- being silly.  
  

Teler Maid: [innocently]  
    
Nay, and I thought you but spoke of the winds.  
  

Warrior: [uncertain]  
    
But -- there isn't any weather in here.  
  

Teler Maid: [grimly meaningful]  
    
Even so.  
  

Beren: [looking at the senior officers]  
    
Er, sirs -- we have to tell the truth, right?  
  

Steward:  
    
Or else remain silent.  
  

Beren: [glancing nervously at the Teler girl, who is leaning around still scowling at him]  
    
I don't think that's an option right now.  
  

Steward:  
    
Then, as you understand it, yes. But you will find it simply to be so, not something to be worked at.  
  
[aside to the Captain]  
  
\--And no, we are not going to explain how to get around it, things are bad enough as it is.  
  

Beren:  
    
Can I leave things out?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
No.  
  

Beren:  
    
Damn.  
  
[he sighs heavily]  
  
Promise you're not gonna yell at me?  
  
[she keeps glaring at him, and he squares his shoulders, sighs again -- and breaks into helpless snickers once more.]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [aside]  
    
\--Just run for it, Beren.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh, you're volunteering to explain?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
No, I'll be retreating right alongside you.  
  

Captain:  
    
Lads -- you're straining my patience, now.  
  

Beren: [straightening up]  
    
Yes, sir.  
  
[to the Sea-elf]  
  
When you started saying we were all being like a bunch of dumb kids just looking up to Lord Edrahil even if he was looking down on us, it reminded us of what Feanor said about the Valar and the Noldor, or the Noldor and the Valar rather, and when I say "reminded us" I mean "about" since the two of us weren't around for it, so we can't actually get reminded of it, but you know what I mean, right? So -- that -- just got us going about the Powers we did know, and if they were like him at all or not, and he\--  
  
[lightly elbowing the Teler Ranger]  
  
\--was just about to bring up Morgoth's second-in-command, and I lost it.  
  
[his co-offender gives a huff over being proven wrong; the Sea-elf's Look becomes still icier]  
  
I know it wasn't really appropriate, but we weren't trying to be rude, and I guess it wasn't really all that funny either--  
  

Warrior: [aside, straightfaced]  
    
\--Melian.  
  
[Beren breaks down again, but the Youngest Ranger manages to maintain his composure -- for all of a half-second. The Captain just shakes his head, sighing.]  
  
Sorry, my lords.  
  

Steward:  
    
One supposes you were incapable of refraining, and hence not culpable.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [nodding seriously]  
    
That's it precisely, sir.  
  

Teler Maid: [furious]  
    
Even you! Even you that are of the free kindred that went upon your own ways, you too are content to be his thrall and fool and make jest even of yourself for his amusing!  
  
[her distant compatriot bows his head, trying to avoid conflict, but the Steward looks up at last and leans forward, his eyes blazing]  
  

Steward: [fiercely]  
    
Think you so, my lady? --That I know not the worth of these my friends, nor rate theirs properly against mine own, but deem it no more than due? That no more do they, but like fools do believe a glamour of words and certainties and pride, as they were deceived by the Enemy himself? Listen, then, and then judge them as you will--  
  
[she glares back, not backing down, though the others do not look happy]  
  
You will hear whether or not they know my limit, and the boundless depths and heights of my cowardice, and if their kindness and care of my uncertain temper is of aught other grounds than their compassion!  
  
[the Captain grips his shoulder, but does not make any attempt to interrupt; but when he goes on the heat is absent from his voice almost completely, and the edge is replaced by a calm, if somewhat wearied, factual tone]  
  
When we were taken prisoners, and sentenced to die unless we should betray which among us were our leaders, and what our mission had been, I held at first that I should endure far better than my fellows, for my greater understanding of all things, that I judged but second to our royal master's, and for that those things which grated so heavily upon certain of us, and that some had no power whatsoever to withstand--  
  
[he looks apologetically at the Youngest Ranger, who is watching him with a serious, intent gaze]  
  
\--to me were almost nothing, compared to those burdens which did trouble me deeply. But that confidence, which was indeed pride, and in equal part fear that another less able to resist would break and give Sauron the Abhorred the word he wished, and thus the keys that might unlock not only Nargothrond but also haply Doriath, did news of our fate come to King Elu's daughter. --We did not at that time know that she had already learned some part of it, and even then was making effort to come to Beren's rescue, but had been twice thwarted before reaching more than halfway to our holding-place.  
  
[he frowns, looking off thoughtfully -- she snaps her fingers impatiently to get his attention]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But?  
  
[to his confused look]  
  
But what of that confidence--?  
  

Steward:  
    
Forgive me -- I am somewhat distracted with many things, and this is not so easy a tale, nor one I am much used to tell.  
  

Second Guard: [aside]  
    
Huh --That's an understatement.  
  

Teler Maid: [aside, suspicious]  
    
Who is this, that addresses me in such a fashion?  
  

Steward:  
    
As I had begun, but finished not, that confidence of mine was far from well-founded. Instead of other and more noble cares, the one that came to prey most upon my mind was fear, not of pain but of being unhoused: the certainty grew upon me that I should be lost there, unable to find my way, unable to escape the snares and power of our captor, and the dread of it was worse than sleeplessness, nor the burning of the chains that caused it, nor the dark itself. So great did this conviction become, and so wholly did it consume my attention, that I grew to most bitterly resent the giving of my place to you--   
  
[glancing at the Captain]  
  
\--and to waste much fruitless energy in wishing to have the deed undone; and in fury, that Barahir's son might not be obliged as we to spend a measureless Age in yet another prison after that one, but should go free, nor be held shelterless within these Halls--  
  
[to Beren and the rest of the Ten, wryly]  
  
\--I am often wrong, you see.  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  

Beren: [tightly]  
    
Nobody Saw this one coming. Not even Lord Mandos.  
  

Steward:  
    
In any case, Maiwe, you must surely concede that none that were present can have any doubt of my vanity, nor my weakness, nor my inability to rule the same--  
  

First Guard: [interrupting, very definitely not rudely]  
    
\--That -- wasn't how it seemed -- to us, sir. That you could be that frightened, and not give in, and still care about us, the worse it got -- how could we do any less?  
  
[the Steward bows his head in embarrassed acceptance]  
  

Teler Maid: [shaking her head]  
    
But that does not make sense. How could one not come here, when your body is not there to stay in? What foolishness is that, to worry about "finding your way"--?  
  

Captain: [aside to her, urgently]  
    
It -- isn't the same, for everyone.  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
\--Unreasonable, perhaps, but reason had long abandoned me. I strove to conquer it, and thought I had at last, by virtue of silencing my mind, that I thought of nothing, but only the ever-changing, ever-familiar, never-silent vistas of the Sea; and thus could not afflict my companions with my fear, nor they to shake me with their own. But I had not escaped it, only hidden for a while, and again the dread of it grew so strong upon me that I could no longer speak, for it drowned out all other thought, so that when my time came at last, I had not strength even for wrath, or for any other thought than that I should at least no longer be obliged to hear his coughing--  
  
[nods towards Beren]  
  

Teler Maid: [confused]  
    
Was there smoke?  
  
[the Steward shakes his head]  
  
Then what was it made you cough?  
  

Steward:  
    
Not us. Only he.  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning still more]  
Why?  
  
[the Ten exchange looks of dismay and distress, while her expression changes from confusion to anger at being apparently treated as unworthy of response. Huan starts whining, very softly, and gets a ight tap from the Captain to make him shut up.]  
  

Beren: [to the others, earnestly]  
    
She doesn't understand. How can she? No one who stayed has ever met us. You said that not even animals get sick here the way they do back home, there's no blight on crops, things don't grow wrong, they just grow until they get old and stop, or something eats them first -- they don't start dying while they're alive.  
  

Teler Maid: [sudden understanding]  
    
That is what they meant, those I did overhear talking that are returned, when they spoke of the Sickly Ones--  
  

Ranger: [fierce]  
    
You mustn't say that--  
  

Teler Maid: [concerned]  
    
Is that unmannerly? Was that insult, then?  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Not from you, no.  
  

Steward:  
    
No living thing fares well in chains, in darkness -- not even the Children of Aule could bear such forever, I think; but for we that were born of earth beneath the sky, it is death to be held under stone, and falls hardest on the youngest of us. No more than a bird or a green plant might live without free air or light -- yet the bodies of the Secondborn still strive to mend and to live despite the harm even as our own, and that is sickness.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
For how long were you imprisoned?  
  
[none of the Elven shades answer her -- they do not know]  
  

Beren: [in a weirdly-detached manner]  
    
The leaves were partway-turned when we reached the southernmost edge of the delta, the farthest point north we got. The trees were bare when Huan broke Tinuviel out of Nargothrond. Closer than that, can't tell. I don't even know if that means anything to you, if you had seasons here before like we do now.  
  

Teler Maid: [quiet]  
    
But a long time -- longer than days--  
  
[he nods]  
  

Beren: [shortly]  
    
Yeah.  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
But not so long as years, as those that are thralls of the Iron Lord must serve without hope, until, and if, they are allowed to die.  
  
[she stiffens, her expression growing hard]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
They are Kinslayers, and such is their fate.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger starts and looks grim, but the Steward replies before he can say anything.]  
  

Steward: [still dispassionate]  
    
Not all. Many are of your tribe of our people, and guilty of no murder -- for the Lord of Fetters cares nothing for the deeds or misdeeds of those he takes for slaves, saving only as he might use them against his foes. It is a terrible choice to be given, between dying and giving slavery to those that have been one's friends.  
  

Teler Maid: [chill emphasis]  
    
I had no choice.  
  

Steward:  
    
And for that I do envy you.  
  
[she makes as if to say something, and he waits, until it is clear she will not, before he goes on]  
  
But even though I did make it, there was no respite there, no satisfaction in the deed of choosing, for the slave-demon made no haste in its work to end my time of captivity, and the fear of being stranded as an unquiet ghost grew to outmeasure what dread I had known before as a true hurricane that uproots ancient trees and hurls the Sea upon the land and casts down the sand cliffs into it outpaces the wind and tumult of a common thunderstorm.  
  
[again her braids are being turned into knots without her realizing it]  
  
And that was worst of all -- I had not dreamed that fear could be so strong, nor that any emotion might consume so without killing, and I was still bound there to life, even as I was torn from it and from my friends, who might not save me, no more than I might aid them. All that was left of my mind was fear, and a longing to be free of it, as might a wild bird trapped in a burning cage know, and in my yearning I reached for that dream that had given me rest when no rest was to be had, and the Sea was there.  
  
[at these words the Captain slides his arm across to grip his other shoulder, and he leans his head back against his friend's elbow in acknowledgment of the gesture, but doesn't hesitate or stop:]  
  
And I understood at last, in the place beneath all speech, all mastery of words, beneath the biting roots of that fear that had devoured my wits more thoroughly than the Enemy's beast devoured my body, that it was no mere memory nor fancy born of my own wishfulness, but truth: that the voice of the Sea is wherever the Lord of the Waters holds dominion -- and the salt currents run endless through our hearts, through every least inch of our flesh, through our brains and our bones living, and never can we escape the Deep, though it lies so near to us that we do not even mark it for the most part.  
  
[smiling grimly]  
  
And I knew also that my fear, for me, was the truth -- that I had so weakened myself in my lonely war against it that I might not have the strength to make my way Westward against the dark winds that blew across Middle-earth, and I should indeed perhaps be trapped by the Enemy's might, if not as his slave, then as a lost thing that once had a name, within the shadows.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [doubtful and resentful at once]  
    
But -- you did mean it for mercy's sake -- to keep your fears to yourself.  
  

Steward:  
    
So I did indeed.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But that is not fair\--  
  

Steward:  
    
That I should be free to harm myself for good cause as for ill? 'Twould be hard, I think, that I should be let Doom myself for vainglory, and not to protect those I loved, whether it made any difference in the end.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Yet--  
  
[she subsides again with a troubled expression]  
  

Steward:   
    
Only might I turn to the Waters, while yet they ran within my emptying veins, and forsake the dry cliff from which I watched the breakers in my thoughts, and let the god of the Deeps protect me, and thus find safety -- and this I knew, as one knows the embrace of one's parents from the first, before ever word or name is known, and yet -- I did not dare to enter the Sea.  
  

Teler Maid: [baffled]  
    
But why should you yet fear the Sea, and more so than houseless death?  
  

Steward:  
    
But I did. Nor was it all unreasoning in its root, though there was no reason in me then; for your Lord nor his folk had cause to love me, being Noldor.  
  

Teler Maid: [suppressed intensity]  
    
But you have sworn to me, Edrahil, most solemnly, that you had not any part in our deaths!  
  

Steward:  
    
I have, and ever shall. But many were on those ships that had not wielded blade, and I had seen the sorrow of the Long-Haired Lady more terrible than the wrath of Feanor, ruining that which he had accounted more worth than lives, and with their destruction those lives as well.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [taut]  
    
They did consent, still. --Though it be after.  
  

Steward: [gently]  
    
And might I have been among them, had I not feared the Deep so much even then, full as much as I did trust Finarfin's son, and refuse the urgings of those that had been among that company you recollect, that smiled at you behind their cups, and praised me for my wit. And despite my innocence of blood, I dreaded that my unkindness to you and to your kin, and my contemptible thoughts of all your tribe, should be known to them of the Sea and I tarried in dread, while the tide ran ever lower, and I wished that the decision might be made for me without my making it, that a crashing breaker might sweep me from the rocks; but that might not be.  
  
[he sighs; the Captain swats Huan preemptively again]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you did at last.  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
I did. As reluctantly as I had eagerly fled thence did I turn West at last, and yielded and cast myself into the mercy of your Lord, and the Sea took me, and all the tangled ambitions and regrets and certainties and remembrances dissolved as I had feared, and I was free, no shred cohering to be caught by grasping foe, nor caught upon that other shore, and there was peace, though I cannot well say for me \-- for where is difference, once the berg has melted into the summer wave?  
  
[she is looking at him seriously, without her previous skepticism or hostility]  
  
A time passed, and the tide washed upon this shore, and here did I remain, bodiless and broken, upon the land where I was born, blind, and without remembrance even of my names, that I might from that small coal of knowledge rekindle my self's shaping -- and thus might I have remained even to this instant, for all of mine own strength. None of my ability or wisdom or will should have sufficed, so far had I lost myself in my wanderings, had not these sought me out most loyally and lavished their sorrow upon me and called me by my names and stayed me until I returned from my darkness -- all that endures, that is to say.  
  
[as he finishes he looks now at Beren, who is watching him with an expression both grief-stricken and under control.]  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
I'm sorry.  
  

Steward: [as softly]  
    
I know.  
  
[the moment is one of complete mutual acceptance, and recognition of that acceptance, and consequent peace, broken almost immediately]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But for what does he ask your pardon, that was taken in the same cruel punishment? --Only--  
  
[looking at Beren uncertainly, then back again]  
  
\--he did say he was the cause of your coming hither . . .  
  
[she trails off; Beren starts to answer, but the Steward raises his hand commandingly]  
  

Steward:  
    
Hush, child, she did ask of me.  
  
[to the Sea-elf]  
  
\--The Lord of Beor begged aid and guestright of Earwen's son our King, that never should have needed to do the same, but such have the times become in the lands beyond, that news be scarce, and help scarcer. And he in his turn repaid his life-debt and kept his promised word to give such help, though the price of it be life as well as kingdom, robbed of him by faithlessness, though none should have prevented him from answering the mortal with silence, and barred doors, nor obliged him to honor pledged faith save his heart's honour.  
  
[the detatched, factual tone displaced by great intensity]  
  
And none did compel me, nor any of these our friends to follow, saving our own hearts likewise, though any could see, nor the King alone, that for this endeavor should be no likely ending save disaster. And so we were taken by the demi-god who now rejoices in a name of loathing, and but little more than half our journey made, though the way in end did prove far longer than any had guessed. And there we perished, that he might not.  
  
[she looks at him with a wide, fixed stare -- then suddenly springs to her feet]  
  

Teler Maid: [through clenched teeth]  
    
I do not want to pity you, -- nor to honour you!  
  
[silence -- she turns to look at Beren]  
  
I wish I could hate you. I wish--  
  
[in a rush]  
  
\--I wish I had never to have left my home for Tirion, that never should I have known any of ye, nor should I have perforce to cared, that had I been slain upon the Night yet would the Doom upon you meant no more to me than justice done, nor I to have stayed here when most all have long gone home, to wait for you that now are strangers all, for love and hate for him that ever was a stranger! I wish I were not here\--  
  

Captain: [reaching his free hand up towards her]  
    
Maiwe--  
  

Teler Maid: [cold]  
    
You are kind and will urge me peace regardless. Let him speak, that I should stay, or go -- as he'd rule me.  
  
[the Captain winces and looks away; she does not rescind her no-win mandate, but continues to stare down at the Steward, who does not flinch at her anger]  
  

Steward: [very simply]  
    
Please -- don't leave -- like this.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [in bleak admission]  
    
If I go, where shall I go? Where is there for me to be, but here, and beside you? If I go -- I shall only return, like fish to a bow-lantern, drawn to your light and your song--  
  
[looking around at them all]  
  
\--from my shadows, for I cannot unknow what I now know. Only might I stay hidden, that none might discern or touch me -- and I to affect none in my turn, silent as mist. Long enough was I quiet beside you! -- or would you have me in death as in life, Edrahil, silent in your shadow, when you would not have my chattering to interrupt you nor shame you amid the wise?  
  

Steward:  
    
Not though your words be harder than hail upon my soul.  
  
[she stands with her fists clenched, then in abrupt, disjointed motions in succession puts her hands on her hips, folds her arms, and lets them fall to her side]  
  

Teler Maid: [tired and frayed-sounding]  
    
I am much overset with all that I have heard and seen and learnt this day.  
  

Beren: [quietly, with the hint of a smile]  
    
Join the crowd.  
  
[he gestures to her place, and after a moment's hesitation she sits down again with a heavy sigh]  
  

Teler Maid: [to him, dispirited]  
    
Moreover if I were to hate you then these all should hate me in turn.  
  

Captain: [in a good imitation of his usual tone]  
    
We'd not hate you, Ternlet -- though we might toss you in the drink if you're too obnoxious, to be sure.  
  

Teler Maid: [startled]  
    
Why?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, if I were involved, it might be considered a much-belated revenge for the time you incited my sister to help you push me off of the sea-wall at your lady's parents' House.  
  

Teler Maid: [affronted]  
    
That was not mine, that idea was hers!  
  

Captain:   
    
That's what she said.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I tell you, it was Sulilote thought of it! --First.  
  

Captain: [shaking his head solemnly]  
    
Led astray by my perfidious sibling. And you didn't say, "Oh, that wouldn't be nice, when he's got his pack still on and all his gear there, think how long it will take him to dry it all out and clean the salt off and polish and wax everything so stuff doesn't rust (and the bowstrings are going to be ruined anyway) so why don't we let's not?"  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Um . . .  
  

Captain:  
    
Of course not, never even crossed your mind, I'll wager.  
  

Teler Maid: [stubborn]  
    
You did think it most droll, as well.  
  

Captain: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
And you think that excuses it, Sanderling?  
  
[she makes a strange little exclamation, half-laugh, half-sob, and looks away quickly, scrubbing hard at her eyes with her hair]  
  

Teler Maid: [forlorn]  
    
Not even you can make me to be cheerful now.  
  
[pulling herself together]  
  
But why should you do so to me?  
  

Beren:   
    
Apparently it's something they do on a regular basis. Only usually it just involves pushing unsuspecting hecklers into puddles or something. Nothing quite as elaborate as all this.   
  
[nodding towards the waterfall. Simultaneously:]  
  

First Guard: [wistful]  
    
We never thought of doing this before.  
  

Captain:  
    
They tripped, I assure you, on my honor! All of them.  
  

Beren: [dryly]  
    
Yeah, just like Prince Aegnor.  
  

Teler Maid: [wide-eyed, not sure if this is for real]  
    
You flung him into the water?  
  
[they nod; Huan's tail thumps twice before he remembers he is being unobtrusive and a Sorry Dog.]  
  
Wherefore he spoke hatefully to your friend? --And what said Lord Ingold of it?  
  

Warrior:  
    
Oh, he said we could.  
  

Steward: [sighing heavily]  
    
That is not exactly correct. What he said was, if you'll recollect, in essence, that he could not stop us. Which, strictly interpreted, is the truth -- but rather begging the question, if you ask me (which no one did) of whether or not he had any intention of trying. --Which, as he had not, made it entirely impossible for him to do so, by logical necessity.  
  

Captain: [to the Sea-elf]  
    
See? He can still manage a properly supercilious set-down when it's appropriate.  
  
[she gives him a quick, forced smile]  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning suddenly]  
    
Was not his brother angry with him?  
  

Captain:  
    
I expect so.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What said they following?  
  
[he shrugs]  
  

Captain:   
    
He wasn't here. --Himself, I mean, not the younger one. --You really are a bad influence, Barahirion.  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry, sir. I'm trying my best.  
  

Fourth Guard: [patronizing]  
    
Yes, Beren, but that's the problem, you see.  
  
[the Sea-elf ducks her head quickly, letting her hair fall forward to screen her expression]  
  

Beren: [aside to his neighbor on the right]  
    
\--If you made a pebble and gave it to me, do you think I could throw it at him?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I don't see why not.   
  
[obliges; Beren tosses it accurately though left-handedly at the Guard, who catches it easily and goes to flick it back]  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Children. Behave.  
  
[the pebble mysteriously vanishes]  
  

Captain: [bland]  
    
How you do go on about nothing.  
  

Teler Maid: [harshly, still hidden behind her long hair]  
    
Keep on with the telling of this tale of yours, for there must have been things to happen between your sojourn by this lake and your deaths, I think--!


	39. Scene IV.xiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xiv**

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: a long hallway, perhaps the same one where the duellists were earlier, perhaps another one much like it. There are massive columns lining it, as large as those along the portico of the Pantheon, but more prismatic, squared or octagonal, and the vaulting is subtly more geometric than rounded, where visible -- just enough to convey a distinctly not-human origin; in other words, as everywhere, the Halls should not look like they're modeled on any historic architectural style or styles, but the reverse.]  
  
[Aegnor appears (literally) at one end of the corridor, still a bit bedraggled, and stands hesitating, looking towards Finarfin, who is pacing slowly down the hall with his back towards him. He makes an uncertain movement as if to draw near to him; seeing Amarie approaching from the opposite direction beyond, however, he ducks around behind a nearby column before either living Elf can become aware of him.]  
  

Amarie: [curtseying deeply]  
    
\--Majesty.  
  

Finarfin: [with equal politeness]  
    
My lady.  
  
[pause]  
  
Is't not passing strange, this exchange of high formality that so late did customarily use other greeting?  
  

Amarie: [brittle]     
Thou dost know well, this  
present state -- 'tis none of mine own doing.  
  

Finarfin: [meaningfully]  
    
None?  
  
[she doesn't answer. The camera turns to reveal that behind the column, Aegnor is battling surprise at finding it already in use as cover by not one, but two of his siblings -- Angrod on the further side wearing an expression of stoic dismay, while Finrod, now in the middle, is endeavoring to restrain laughter. His amusement at the absurdity of their situation is not appreciated by either brother, Aegnor giving him a glare as he pushes him to move over and give him more room.]  
  

Finrod: [manic whisper]  
    
That's Father. Not me.  
  

Aegnor: [whispering also, very caustic]  
    
Really. --Any other relatives here?   
  

Finrod: [nodding]  
    
Aunt 'Danel, too.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Not -- Mother?  
  

Finrod: [grim]  
    
No.  
  

Angrod:  
    
Shh!  
  
[out in the hallway, Amarie is still looking obstinate, but not quite as haughty; Finarfin's expression is wistful]  
  

Amarie: [resigned]  
    
There's naught to be said else upon the matter.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Belike.  
  
[she tosses her head, folding her arms]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Thou hast spoken, my lady Earwen hath spoken, he hath spoken -- all the world and mine own kin have had their say thrice over. Should words mend the world -- there'd be no Marring.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy certainty doth put me in mind of another Elf, upon another time, long gone past.  
  

Amarie: [hotly]  
    
My lord, let thou not compare me unto Feanor!  
  

Finarfin: [raising his eyebrows]  
    
Named I my brother?  
  
[silence]  
  

Amarie:  
    
I am no rebel -- nay, nor should ever be!  
  

Finarfin:  
    
In truth?  
  
[she gives the King a Look sharp but troubled]  
  
Hast not even yet received petition from the holy Powers, to lay aside thy wrath, and dost thou not cling fast with both thine hands in their despite--?  
  
[long pause -- behind the column Finrod's brothers stare at him, while he looks straight ahead, ignoring them. Aegnor gives an angry snort. Finrod does turn at that, and then frowns, feeling the other's sleeve, and then touching his hair before Aegnor shoves his hand away. Angrod shushes them again.]  
  

Amarie: [ice]  
    
It hath not been commanded me.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nor should e'er it be.  
  
[she turns away, her mouth set. He holds out his hand to her]  
  
Come, walk with me, an thou will't, --daughter.  
  
[Amarie turns back, startled, and her lips tremble -- there is, it seems, a chink in her armour]  
  

Amarie: [not letting it affect her voice]  
    
My lord, there is naught that may be seen, the way that I did come. Nor have I met any other within, saving only thine own self, though betimes I have methought that I did glimpse, still were there none either of shade or spirit when I did go thence.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Then it shall matter not, the which direction we choose to take ourselves, is that not the truth? --Or wouldst rather have thy solitude, my lady?  
  
[she sighs, pulling her scarf about her as if cold again]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Nay.  
  
[sharply]  
  
\--Nor yet would I be adviséd.  
  

Finarfin: [in the same gentle way he has addressed her throughout]  
    
How then, if thou shalt hear my heart's disclose, and thou advise, rather than to hear counsel given?  
  
[Again he gestures for her to accompany him, and this time, after a moment's hesitation, she begins to retrace her steps by his side, her posture very tense, until they can no longer be seen in the darkness.]  
  
[Finrod looks at Aegnor, who is trying to look nonchalant instead of guilty, without terribly much success]  
  

Finrod: [innocently]  
    
You're damp. How come?  
  

Aegnor: [grimacing]  
    
I don't know. By rights it should have been as evanescent as any decapitation, but the condition remains regardless.  
  

Finrod: [reasonable tone]  
    
Being wet is a much more  
common experience than being killed, hence the memory of it should naturally persist far more strongly. And you evaded my question. What happened to you?   
  
[brief pause]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Your people are maniacs.  
  

Finrod: [still mild]  
    
You were hassling Beren again.  
  
[Angrod makes an exasperated noise]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Would you stop using that mortal slang?  
  

Finrod:  
    
No. Nor will I let you change the subject.  
  
[to Aegnor, the same calm manner, only now it seems rather chilling]  
  
Your behaviour is not only a disgrace to the family, it's utterly unreasonable. --Why do you blame him for making the same mistake that his kinswoman made long before he was born, rather than rebuking our cousin for presuming to be wiser than the rest of us, and showing us our folly as in a mirror?  
  

Angrod:  
    
Brother, you go too far--  
  

Finrod: [ignoring him, fixing Aegnor with a Look]  
    
Unless it's simple cowardice -- sorry, prudence \-- that so wisely durst not challenge Luthien. You got off lightly indeed.  
  
[they tense, and Aegnor glares at him, but he matches stares with the other calmly, until finally Aegnor breaks down and demands furiously:]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
\--Why did you tell him we were guilt-ridden over the fact that our friendship with Cur and Cel led to your death?  
  

Finrod: [startled]  
    
I did no such thing!  
  
[narrowing his eyes]  
  
Is it true?  
  
[he looks at Angrod as well; they don't answer]  
  
I see. --Interesting. That \-- hadn't occurred to me.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
It doesn't change a bloody thing! You're still behaving with a besotted obsessiveness that begins to rival our eldest uncle for self-destructive insanity!  
  

Finrod: [smiling faintly]  
    
Is that the way you both see it?  
  

Angrod:  
    
Yes! Can't you see that you're setting yourself on a headlong path towards disaster again, that you're bent on a course that will inevitably lead you into another conflict with the gods?  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
Well, at least it will be all my own doing, this time.  
  

Angrod:  
    
No, it's the same damnéd thing. Haven't you learned? You're going to let your softheartedness lead you into making the exact same mistake as before, throwing yourself away to defend those who have fallen prey to their own rashness and impulsive folly!  
  

Finrod: [slowly, cold iron]  
    
They were your people too. You claimed lordship to Beren only now -- and yet you will not defend him in his need.  
  

Aegnor: [sounding an awful lot like his eldest brother]  
    
We know perfectly well that we are among those for whom you threw your own freedom and safety aside,by our wanting to carry forward with our cousins, after Morgoth, over theIce -- we condemn ourselves equally and without reservation. If anything,we are more qualified than any other, to warn you against this mistake. Isn't twice enough, that you must make it a third time?  
  

Finrod: [still more slowly]  
    
Mistake or not, I will make it.  
  

Aegnor: [grabbing his shoulder]  
    
No. We are going to make you see reason, brother.  
  

Finrod: [mild curiosity]  
    
And how exactly do you plan to do that?  
  
[he takes hold of their wrists, ducks under and turns all at once, pinning their crossed arms against the pillar, and stands facing them with a look of extreme exasperation]  
  
I should bang your heads together, but I doubt it would make any difference at this point.  
  
[they try to pull free, but he does not budge, and when Aegnor raises his free hand to pry away his grip he speaks with the same tone of power that he used on Beren in Act II, with equal effect]  
  
Be. Still. --Look at me.  
  
[he stares into their eyes in turn, and this time his voice is extremely gentle:]  
  
Do you think, my brothers, that I have not place enough in my heart for all my kin? Must your jealousy bring you, too, to violence against the youngest? Or do you hold that I have loved you the less, that I have loved Beor's children also?  
  
[Angrod doesn't speak and will not meet his eyes; Aegnor stifles a sob, flinging his head back hard against the pillar]  
  
I did not forget you -- nor do I forget you now. But I must take care of my own. --Do you need such help as those two now? If there is anything you'd have of me, you know you've but to ask. --But you've not.  
  
[pause -- when he goes on it is in a slightly harder tone:]  
  
Or is it that you need me to stay thus docile, that you may act as though you were my elders, and slight me with your words as though I were a fool, and half-mad, and yours the turn to shepherd me, in private as in the multitude, as not even they that have earned the right to it do presume -- and strange it is to me, for all that you as much as I must surely know that I but do indulge you in it. That \-- I cannot give you.  
  
[he pauses again, briefly, but they do not speak]  
  
I have indulged you, because it did not trouble my peace, as to rebuke you should, as a father permits his children to make game about him, and set chains of blossoms upon him, and give him fond names of folly, while he muses in the garden's quiet. But that time is ended, as I knew it must, -- though I did not See it coming so soon, nor in such wise, I do admit -- and I must rise to be King once again, as I had not thought to do, neither for hope nor dread, though my realm be nowhere and my following but a dozen as mad as I, and my only ally one half-goddess and the other half madness as well, and all of us naught but air and dream and that divine spark that kindles all that is.  
  
[fiercely]  
  
And yes, I will stand as I must, against whomever I must, and you may continue your play, as you will, for none can make you cease, but you shall not impede me in my duty. --Nor cross me, as you are wise.  
  
[Angrod is crying silently, tears sliding down his averted face; Finrod lets go of their forearms and lays his hand along Angrod's cheek, turning him to meet his eyes. He flinches, expecting judgment, and finds something else entirely. In a gesture of acceptance he leans against Finrod's shoulder and lets his brother hold him while he regains his composure]  
  

Angrod: [raggedly]  
    
\--Sorry--  
  

Finrod: [smiling, if rather sadly]  
    
\--No lasting harm done.  
  
[he pats Angrod on the elbow as the latter straightens, wiping his eyes, and turns to Aegnor, who is standing with his arms tightly folded, a far greater look of misery on his face. Taking hold of his shoulder:]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Aegnor, it isn't hopeless--  
  

Aegnor: [snarling]  
    
If you dare speak one more time to me again of your visions and your foolish hopes and your mad heresies, I will break your jaw, brother, elder, King, or not--!  
  
[Finrod lets go of his arm and steps back, with a very slight bow]  
  

Finrod: [ice]  
    
As you please. But I commend you not to do so before the Lord of Beor. I warn you, I'll not intervene on your behalf in this case either.  
  
[the other snorts, shaking his head]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
What do you think he could do -- even if he tried to defend you . . . this time?  
  

Finrod: [ironic]  
    
Come now, you've heard the echoes of the tale by now -- the air, the very stones are humming with it, born on the tide of whispers. Have you a wish to share Curufin's fate? I think our royal cousin will not intervene, even were she at hand -- she's much displeased with you at present, as I have warned you.  
  
[pause]  
  

Aegnor: [sullen mockery]  
    
He had both hands, then.  
  

Finrod:  
    
And Curufin was armed and ahorse. Take your chances, if you will. --But do not count too much on my restraint, either. There are limits to my patience as well.  
  
[to Angrod]  
  
You're coming with me, at least--?  
  
[neither of the other two stirs]  
  

Angrod: [gloomy]  
    
He will not be pleased to see me again.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It would be better if you'd let him decide that -- and forgive you your words himself.  
  

Aegnor: [sardonic]  
    
Why do you think he'll be willing?  
  

Finrod: [coolly]  
    
  Because he is Beoring. --Because he is mine. Do you think he will not?  
  
[they don't answer this, either, but the defiance goes out of their expressions, leaving them standing there stubborn but forlorn as he turns on his heel and leaves them behind in the shadows.]  



	40. Scene IV.xv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xv**

  
  
  
  
    
[the Hall.]  
  
[Huan lifts up his head, and gives a soft, low noise somewhere between a bark and a growl, interrupting the conversation, a moment before the other Elven-warriors look over at the door, where a solitary figure is hanging at the edge of it, looking warily around the door frame. Seeing them by the remodeled fountain, he gestures urgently for someone to come over to him -- the Third Guard winces and covers his face with his hand.]  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
You should just vanish.  
  

Third Guard: [getting reluctantly to his feet]  
    
That would only make it worse. Then he'd complain about that, too.  
  
[he goes towards the door resignedly; as the camera follows, leaving the Falls behind, Beren asks:]  
  
  

Beren:  
    
Who's that?  
  

First Guard:  
    
His nephew. It's . . . a long story. --And quite dull. You can ask him about if you really want.   
  
[at the doorway, the Royal Guard stops and folds his arms a short distance off, looking at his kinsman with an expression of combined exasperation and pity. The other Noldor shade waves urgently for him to come the rest of the way]  
  

Nephew: [whispering]  
    
Come over here.  
  
[he does so after a moment.]  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Why can't you come talk to me in a civilized manner?  
  
[the younger Elf looks around the Hall, and at the Loom and the Thrones, with a disbelieving expression]  
  

Nephew: [earnest]  
    
We need you to help.  
  

Guard: [sighing]  
    
I'm not interested. You need to ask King Felagund.  
  

Nephew: [getting exasperated himself]  
    
Why won't you help? What's wrong, that you can't even do a favor for your relatives?  
  

Guard:  
    
Because it's going to drag on and on into endless helping. I told you, I haven't any interest in your hobby and I'm not about to get caught up in it on your behalf.  
  

Nephew: [aggrieved]  
    
That's most unkind of you.  
  

Guard:  
    
It's most unfair of you to try to coerce me into doing your work for you.  
  

Nephew: [his voice rising]  
    
I'm just asking--  
  

Guard:  
    
Just stop \-- please.  
  
[the newcomer gives his uncle a dark look]  
  

Nephew:  
    
One would think you'd be ashamed to push me off like this, after what happened to me.  
  

Guard:  
    
Don't do this again. The fact that you were taken prisoner a yen and a half ago has no bearing whatsoever on your confounded project.  
  
[the other gives him an even more reproachful look, resulting in a still-more exasperated tone in response:]  
  
Look, I'm sorry you were a slave. I've said so. I don't know why you think that means I should be your slave. It wasn't my fault you didn't listen to your commander and got cut off and captured, was it now?  
  

Nephew:  
    
It isn't just that.  
  

Guard: [sternly]  
    
And that you should not be bringing to me, either. Take it up with your King.  
  

Nephew:  
    
It isn't fair!  
  

Guard:  
    
You knew the risks. You knew the rules. And you knew the reasons for them. Now, go work on your own things -- I'm busy right now.  
  

Nephew: [hurt]  
    
So you don't care that I was a beaten thrall for ninety years, before I managed to break free, and find my way to safety -- only to be turned out to live in the woods like a Green-elf or a human, to live with those savages, until I couldn't take it any more?  
  

Guard: [meaningfully]  
    
You said you escaped.  
  

Nephew:  
    
I did! You know I'm telling the truth!  
  

Guard:  
    
I know you believe what you're saying. It could even be true. That doesn't mean you weren't let to escape.  
  

Nephew:  
    
You don't really think I would be a spy for the Enemy? Your own sister's-son?  
  

Guard: [quiet]  
    
Can you honestly say that you weren't bound?  
  
[pause]  
  
You know, don't you?  
  

Nephew: [changing the subject]  
    
You tell me not to blame my troubles on everyone else, but I've heard you say that it's the fault of the sons of Feanor you're here. And Sauron. And Morgoth.  
  

Guard: [patient]  
    
Yes, but I've got the order straight in my head. I refused to turn back at Araman. And I paid the price for it. If I hadn't done that I'd never have been in that situation, or fallen into the Terrible One's clutches.  
  
[he looks at his younger kinsman expectantly, waiting for the obvious corollary to be made.]  
  

Nephew: [pounding his fist softly against the doorjamb]  
    
It isn't fair. At least you chose yours.  
  

Guard: [unsympathetic]  
    
Well, you weren't very fair to the Teleri, were you?  
  

Nephew:  
    
You don't understand -- you weren't there\--  
  

Guard:  
    
Don't give me that. If you didn't know what was going on, the obvious thing was not to leap in and start killing people, is that not right?  
  

Nephew: [sulkily]  
    
It's easy for you to say.  
  
[the older Elf half-turns, nodding towards the Waterfall]  
  

Guard:  
    
I'm not going to stand here halfway in the door all day. If you want to talk, come in and sit down with us and do it in a civilized fashion.  
  

Nephew:  
    
No!  
  

Guard:  
    
Why ever not?  
  

Nephew:  
    
You're going to get into trouble. --He'll be angry with you.  
  
[from the lowered emphasis and awe in his tone it is clear he is referring to the Lord of the Halls -- his uncle shakes his head]  
  

Guard:  
    
No. He just looked a bit annoyed, that's all. They're busy too, and we're not hurting anything. Now run along, would you?  
  

Nephew:  
    
You're so selfish!  
  

Guard: [with a frustrated exclamation]  
    
When are you going to stop thinking the Sun and Moon and the Stars revolve around you? There are other people in the world.  
  

Nephew:  
    
Don't talk like that!  
  

Guard:  
    
Sorry. But it's the truth, and you know it. Go complain to the High King about the fact that he wouldn't change the banishment rule for you. I wasn't there, complaining to me now is as useless now as it would have been then. Why don't you gripe at your friends from Eithel, that would make more sense.  
  

Nephew:  
    
You're no help.  
  
[he turns away abruptly from the door back into the corridor beyond; the Guard sighs and returns to his companions, sitting down with a groan of despair and puts his head down on his forearms. The Captain leans over and pokes him with the flask, which offer is accepted quickly.]  
  

Beren: [sympathetically]  
    
More crazy-making relatives, huh?  
  

Warrior:  
    
There's never any shortage of them.  
  

Captain:  
    
What's the lad want now?  
  

Third Guard: [capping the canteen and passing it back]  
    
Same as ever. Trying to get me to work on their Theoretical Chronometer again. And throwing his Doom in my face when I won't. --And our kinship.  
  

Beren:  
    
What's a -- Theoretical Chronometer?  
  

Captain:  
    
That's their imaginary clock. It's something that a bunch of Fingolfin's people have been working on, some of them for most of this Age, and it occupies them pretty thoroughly.  
  

Third Guard: [snorting]  
    
Obsessed, some might call it.  
  

Warrior:  
    
At least it keeps them quiet. Mostly. By comparison.  
  

Beren:  
    
How can a clock be imaginary? Is it real or not?  
  

Captain:  
    
It isn't real in any way that you'd think of real, Beren. Moreover it's not going to become real without His Majesty's help, and they haven't got it. They're designing a clock that would allow them to know how much time has passed Outside, but they haven't got anything to make it out of, so all they can do is talk about how they would do it, if they had.  
  

Beren:  
    
But that sounds like exactly his kind of project.  
  

Captain:  
    
The Leaguer wore out his patience with fools. He thinks they're being stupid in insisting on doing it as they are, and he thinks it's all a waste of time additionally. Sometimes he does help them in discussing ideas, on a purely hypothetical basis, but I can't tell if he's doing it because he feels sorry for them, or because of the intellectual challenge, or just to bedevil them. Because usually the result is to require them to tear apart everything they've done so far and start over again, afterwards.  
  

Steward:  
    
All. No question.  
  

Teler Maid: [doubtful]  
    
How can they take it apart if it is not real?  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
That's what I was gonna ask.  
  

Soldier:  
    
The equations and, er, mathematical processes.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Plans. They have to throw them all out and redraw them. So to speak.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Like to designing hulls and coming to see that the keel will not hold the height, before it is ever laid.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Yes. I suppose so, at least.  
  

Beren:  
    
Why won't it work? I guess I mean, how could you tell if it would work or not, when it isn't something like a house, where you can say -- that's not going to fit any way like that?  
  

Captain:  
    
Erm . . .  
  

Soldier:  
    
That's part of the problem. Trying to figure out what would be a check on the processes is most of the designing of it so far.  
  

Beren:  
    
So what do you mean, they won't ask for help? If they're asking him about it?  
  

Third Guard: [shaking his head in disgust]  
    
They won't ask him to help.  
  

Captain:  
    
You see, there isn't any way to tell time without some connection to outside, because nothing changes here except us -- what we do. There's no regular pattern of light or anything to set it against, no day or night, no stars moving, no seasons -- so what are you going to measure? You understand the difficulty.  
  
[Beren narrows his eyes]  
  

Beren:  
    
It's not just a clock you're talking about. It's a calendar. You have no idea when it is for the living.  
  

Captain:  
    
Exactly.  
  

Steward:  
    
Though some argue that they are but the same thing, on differing scale.  
  
  

Beren: [decidedly]  
    
Nah. A clock is a thing, like the one in the City. A calendar is just -- out there \-- it's something that's real because it comes from the Sun. The Chronometer, you could have that play whenever you wanted, it just breaks up the day wherever you want to, not like a sundial . . .  
  
[trails off, frowning]  
  
So is a sundial a clock or a calendar? And what about the days of the week? How do you know where to make them start? 'Cause when there wasn't any more people around me I didn't know any more what was what. So did we just decide where they went? Or you guys, I guess, probably. --Huh.  
  

Steward: [approvingly]  
    
You begin to work out the problem on your own.  
  

Captain:  
    
We started over with Sunrise, by the by. Then you changed it around some on your own. --Or else you had your own and put it together with ours, I'm not quite sure.  
  
[mischievously]  
  
You'll have to ask Himself about that.  
  

Beren:  
    
But what would the problem be that he would have to help them and won't? Or I mean, how could he, I don't think you could make a clock out of stone, that wasn't a sundial, could you? How would that work?  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Water. It would be possible to turn one of the fountains into a measuring device, either simple or complex, since the water is constant--  
  

Ranger: [cutting in]  
    
\--well, that's part of the whole argument, does anything progress here as it does outside--   
  

Third Guard:  
    
\--assuming that the water's rate of flow is constant, it could be calibrated, and then this could be correlated with known temporal coordinates, and the accuracy -- or constancy -- could be checked thereby.  
  

Beren:  
    
So what's the problem?  
  

Captain:  
    
He won't do it, they can't.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Or rather, they won't ask him to teach them, and they haven't been able to figure it out on their own yet.  
  

Ranger:  
    
And the calibration process would require asking some of the staff for information, and they won't.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Give it?  
  

Ranger:  
    
Ask.  
  

Beren: [thoughtful]  
    
You know, I thought I was proud and stubborn.  
  

Soldier: [grinning]  
    
Well, you are. Only we're worse.  
  
[Beren glances up at the bas-relief behind the waterfall]  
  

Beren:  
    
Couldn't you do it? Or did he tell you not to?  
  

Soldier:  
    
Oh no. We just won't, because they didn't ask originally and were obnoxious about it.  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning]  
    
How can you be obnoxious about something you are not doing?  
  

Soldier:  
    
They didn't ask. They just demanded.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [gloomy]  
    
They said, "We need you to make this for us," and I said, "Why?" and they said, "You wouldn't understand," and I said, "No, I won't until you explain what it's in aid of," and they got more and more unpleasant about it, and I still wouldn't until they said what it was for.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Tell them what it was they said to you, exactly.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I said I wouldn't do things without understanding why, except for someone I trusted, and I didn't trust them, because they were Kinslayers, some of them. Which was rather rude, I guess. But I didn't know if they were trying to do something to harass the Lord and Lady.  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
As opposed to us who manage it without trying.  
  
[the Sea-elf flashes a hurried look at him, looking away before he notices]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
So then they said -- some of them -- that they'd tell the Powers that I wasn't Noldor and shouldn't be staying here. And I told them, Go ahead, and I'll tell them what you were doing as well, and that was the end of it.  
  

Soldier:  
    
Only not really, because then they did ask the rest of us -- most politely -- who know how, only it wasn't any good, because we'd already heard all about it and that cruel bluff of theirs.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
So now we get occasional bouts of complaining and guilting, like that just now.  
  

Captain:  
    
They won't talk to Himself because they'd have to apologize, then. And for some reason they won't ask anyone who works here, which would be the simplest thing -- I think they're partly too proud, because they don't want to look like they care, and then there's this weird conviction that the answer is going to be no, and so there's no point in asking, though none of them will explain why they're so certain to be refused.  
  

Steward:  
    
Guilt. --It is possible that the answer might be incomprehensible, you know. The Powers care not about time as we do, and I've always had the sense that they consider any of our efforts to measure it a little odd.  
  

Warrior:  
    
And of course, they might be told, no, that wouldn't be helpful to you.  
  

Fourth Guard: [chuckling]  
    
Yes, but they'll never find out, at this rate.  
  
[two more visitors appear in the archway of the door, coming in a little uncertainly, and looking around. Huan starts wagging his tail vigorously, ears happily pricked in their direction]  
  

Captain: [a touch grumpily]  
    
What is this, the Crossings of Teiglin?  
  
[Beren peers over at them, frowning uncertainly]  
  

Beren:  
    
I think one of them's a ghost, and the other has red hair. I don't think I know them. Do you?  
  
[the Captain straightens up, surprised]  
  

Captain:  
    
As a matter of fact, yes. That's the King's aunt and one of the Greycloak's counsellors.  
  
[he taps the Steward, who is looking morosely and distractedly into the spill pool, on the shoulder.]  
  
More old acquaintances of ours -- do you want us to cover your escape?  
  
  
[the Steward looks over, startled, and then shakes his head, getting up with almost a relieved expression]  
  

Steward:  
    
Best get through it now, than go on dreading it.  
  
[waving off offers of help before they are made]  
  
I need no assistance in this -- the lady is reasonable, and kind, and such pain as comes cannot be borne by another.  
  
[the others look after him with a bit of worry, but not so much, knowing he's right, except for Beren, who scrambles up a moment later to follow him. Huan does not, but looks as if he wants to, his tail still brushing the floor softly]  
  

Captain: [to his former colleague]  
    
You're awfully quiet, Ternlet. How come?  
  
[she shrugs, not looking at him]  
  
I see.  
  

Teler Maid: [hesitantly]  
    
Are you much angered with me, then?  
  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  

Captain:  
    
Not much. He would never have spoken for himself if you'd not attacked us. --And are you still angry with me?  
  
[she shakes her head in turn. Looking after Beren:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
They are not very biddable, are they?  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
No more than we, Sea-mew, no more than we.  
  
[the focus shifts to where Nerdanel is receiving the Steward's greeting with a bemused, anxious smile, while the Ambassador stares past suspiciously at Beren, who in turn is watching his friend with a worried look from a few feet off.]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
So, then -- what wouldst thou of me, Enedrion?  
  

Steward: [bowing]  
    
I would offer my apology to your House, my lady, if you in turn would be so gracious as to convey such in my stead.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
What, dost deem a yen sooner matterest, that it should rather be half-and-three, than half-and-four, that might not proffer thine own words unto my father?  
  
[he winces at the dry note in her words]  
  

Steward:  
    
Please you, my lady, I entreat you to withhold your righteous indignation at my misspent years, for mercy's sake, not mine own, as I have had my fortitude sorely tried of late.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Never thought I to hear thee seek for pity, youngling -- no more than witness thy granting of it.  
  
[giving up on being discreet, Beren comes forward to stand at the Steward's shoulder once more]  
  

Beren:  
    
Excuse me, but -- you really shouldn't give him a hard time, ma'am. He's had plenty already.  
  

Steward: [stiffly]  
    
My lord, I said I required not assistance.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, but you were wrong.  
  

Steward: [nodding acquiescence]  
    
\--True.  
  
[Beren touches his arm reassuringly]  
  

Beren:  
    
It's okay, I'm not going to get hurt by words now.  
  

Nerdanel: [slowly, fascinated]  
    
So, thou \-- art he \-- Aftercomer that hath undone Immortal design, and confused the counsels of the great of Arda. I must perforce confess I had conceived of thee as . . . other -- nay, far more imposing of thy presence withal.  
  

Ambassador: [aside]  
    
As had we.  
  
[Beren turns and gives him a cool Look]  
  

Beren:  
    
Do I know you?  
  

Ambassador: [unperturbed]  
    
We were not introduced, milord. I was present at your -- introduction, to the court of Elu King of Doriath, but no doubt you were far too . . . preoccupied to remark or regard my presence among their Majesties' counsellors.  
  

Beren: [drily]  
    
\--Yeah. Just a bit.  
  
[to Nerdanel, not mocking, but with a touch of humour:]  
  
\--Sorry to disappoint, my lady.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Less that, than a marvel, that thou shouldst find so light that which all mine own sons and spouse alike did strive forin vain attempt--!  
  
  

Beren:  
    
Er, light? -- no. Also, from what I know about the War, actually going and trying did make a huge difference.  
  

Nerdanel: [frowning, confused]  
    
All that, and 'twas not attempted? For what, then, yon wild pursuit, nor all this Age's doings?  
  

Beren:  
    
After Feanor got killed--  
  
[she winces, and the Steward shakes his head in dismay]  
  
Sorry -- I--  
  
[Nerdanel gestures him to continue, though her expression is grim]  
  
Just keeping him contained -- Morgoth, that is -- so that he couldn't get out of Angband. Until he did.  
  
[glancing towards the Steward]  
  
He can tell you better than me, 'cause I wasn't born for most of it, or even him--  
  
[nods towards the Sindar lord]  
  
\--'cause Tinuviel's people weren't involved in most of it.  
  

Steward: [serious]  
    
The tale is long, and all is yet not known, and my lady's nephews I believe hold the greatest knowledge of its finer points -- but my friend has told the heart of it: after hard defeat, no endeavor to break within and seize the stones was made, before the Beoring and his well-named love did undertake the deed.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
So. That which was begun in fiery and utmost haste, did shortly end in slow and moveless state, as the flux will run cold to congeal that hath flown swift in blaze, that is not banked and channeled that the coals do catch.  
  
[shaking her head, with a bitter half-smile]  
  
A dreary tale, yet, but curiously apt unto the madness of it all. --How it must gall them, that Secondborn hath mastered Morgoth's might!  
  

Beren:  
    
"Mastered" is way too strong a word for it.  
  
[she gives him an appraising glance and he shrugs. Reluctant:]  
  
Ah. I have to tell you, ma'am, I -- I tried to pull your son's head off.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Indeed -- and which?  
  

Beren:  
    
C--Curufin, my lady.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, forasmuch as he hath ever been the image of his sire, that doth little 'maze, then. --For what offense? or any, or all?  
  

Beren:  
    
Huh? Um, yes -- that is,he was trying to kidnap Tinuviel then -- or he had been, before I grabbed ahold of the bastard and got him by the neck -- sorry.  
  

Nerdanel:   
    
For why? Surely such deed should merit answer, if any might -- yet, I gather, didst not gain thy way.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. --No, she made me stop and let him go.  
  

Nerdanel: [shaking her head]  
    
This tale groweth more confused ever the more I do learn of it. Could any set it out in such wise that sense shall come of it? --But I confess I have not apprehended all thy thought: what is yon word "bastard" thou didst name my son?  
  

Beren: [chagrined]  
    
Um. It -- it's an -- it's a mortal insult. I mean, it's in our language. It's not necessarily mortal . . .  
  
[trails off]  
  

Nerdanel: [dry]  
    
Nay, and I had deemed it a laud, no less. For certes an insult, as thou dost aver -- yet of what its construing? For surely hath something of sense to signal scorn withal.   
  

Beren:  
    
. . .  
  

Nerdanel: [interested]  
    
Worse, belike, than even "thrall," else "deceiver"--?  
  

Beren: [giving up -- very rushed]  
    
Please understand, ma'am, I didn't mean it literally and I wasn't even thinking about it when I said it and what it means is someone whose parents weren't married or not to each other only what we use it to mean most of the time is someone who goes out of the way to be a mean-hearted, envious, arrogant, troublemaker who deserves to be beaten into a bloody pulp. --Sorry.  
  
[she raises an eyebrow but says nothing]  
  
Like I said it's just an expression we use and I didn't mean when I said it that you . . .  
  
[he breaks off in embarrassment]  
  

Nerdanel: [frowning]  
    
Thou meanst to say, that thy folk might 'get and give forth children into Arda, without ever to bind soul to soul in unity as parents? Even as the kelvar? That one might have a dozen mates, or choose anew with the tide of spring each year?  
  
[completely humiliated, Beren nods]  
  

Beren:  
    
We don't think it's a good thing, but--  
  

Nerdanel: [interrupting]  
    
Then thou needst not to have remained by Luthien, for all she was thy true-love, nay, neither before nor after thee and she were wed, but might even have gone from her to another's love, without thy mind and soul reft by madness, nor she to needs must die first--?   
  

Beren: [adamant]  
    
No. I mean -- yes, I did. Have to.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
But I think that such was th'implicit burden of thy former words, or am I greatly uncomprehending of thee?  
  

Beren:  
    
I couldn't. Me. Maybe some other Man could've walked away from Tinuviel, but--  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thou, at least, had other choice open to thee, to find other match, than set thy life for hazard and thy house with House alike in forfeit for thine only love.  
  

Beren:  
    
No. But yes. --I know it sounds crazy.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Dost speak to me, of madness? Madness I have seen, a-plenty: thine is small, and thy lady's less, by mine own accounting.  
  

Beren: [uncertain]  
    
You -- you don't think I'm crazy, then -- my lady?  
  

Nerdanel: [raising one eyebrow]  
    
That, I said not.  
  
[Beren frowns]  
  

Beren:  
    
Wait, shouldn't it be "Your Highness?" If Feanor's your husband, and he's the son of the first King, then wouldn't that make you a Princess as well?  
  

Nerdanel: [acerbic]  
    
Dost deem me mad, then, to care of this contention and striving after title, after aught of glory than work well-fashioned? My folk doth require none; stone requireth none; how shall I require it, as though else might not ken mine own self's self?  
  
[he is abashed]  
  

Beren:  
    
Sorry -- I didn't mean to insult you, ma'am. I was just trying not to.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, then, neither shalt offense be taken, that was not offered up.  
  
[pause]  
  
Elwe's daughter is far more blessed than ever she doth discern.  
  
[she turns her face away, but recovers her composure quickly.]  
  
I have heard rumour, that mine eldest hath suffered e'en such loss as thou, and would ask of ye, if thou'lt forgive the discourteousness of't, and blame me not for my presuming, if that be so or no?  
  

Beren: [answering first]  
    
Er -- yes. I'm afraid that is true.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I did not doubt it overmuch.  
  
[she sighs]  
  
Passing strange it is, that the first to wield blade amongst us should die first in battle, and firstborn should forfeit hand that did wield such blade, to blade's bite -- as though the earth itself were but a great balance and either land each pan, tilting across the Sea -- I speak mad fancies; I cry ye pardon, gentles. --Of thy pity, lord of Men, canst thou say to me how farest thou, then, that I might ken yet so small a part of my son's life, for--  
  
[lifting her own hands and looking at them]  
  
\--I cannot guess how 'twould be, to have naught save memory of limb, nor how I might easily compass all that should be needful, scanted thus, though I do confess I have oft thought upon it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [awkward but sympathetic]  
    
It's different for him. I mean, he's an Elf, and I'm not, and that was obvious and stupid for me to say. Ah. I mean, he's had a lot longer to get over it and your people heal better than we do anyway, and he's still a great warrior as well as leader of House Feanor in the east, kind of a legend. Well, not kind of a legend, a legend, and . . .  
  
[looking disgusted with himself]  
  
. . . both of those are things that you probably aren't too happy hearing about either. Sorry.  
  
[she looks at him with an odd expression, as if struggling to maintain a precarious balance between tears and laughter]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I do endeavor to comprehend how it must be for thee, that art so changed and forcibly set amid all that's strange to thee, and how it, and we, should all appear, that hast heard belike, yet not in same wise as we shall have heard of another here, and yet dost seek to comprehend in turn and maintain ever. --I confess I cannot.  
  

Beren:  
    
Not everything's strange, ma'am. I remembered what I was told about the King's aunt being wise and always willing to stand up for what she believed in.  
  

Nerdanel: [shaking her head]  
    
'Tis given me to understand, that untruth's far from possible within these walls, so then alike must flattery e'en be: therefore thy sincerity, at the least, might not gainsay. --I thank thee for thy courtesy, sir.  
  
[to the Doriathrin lord]  
  
Thy pardon, my lord, as well -- I fear I do leave thee daunted, thus forgrasping all this our discourse. Pray, do not hesitate thee from speech, but make free as thou wilt.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Less overawed, my lady, than uncertain, at this juncture. I've had no choice but to see this Man through her vision, and I begin to think, -- little as I most certainly like it -- that -- perhaps we were in error.  
  

Beren:  
    
There's a lot of things I could say to that, but I won't.  
  

Ambassador: [holding his own, with an ironic half-bow]  
    
Thank you, milord.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Yet a third way that differest from mine husband, that didst give aside Silmaril as second to the price of love, and strove not to lead astray, nor didst not care that any might follow in thy despite regardless, and that for love, not vengeance nor of hate; that now dost willingly hold peace--!  
  

Beren: [whispering to the Steward]  
    
What did she just say?  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
That unlike Feanor, you know when to be quiet, sometimes.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  

Steward:  
    
Also that you were neither indifferent to nor desirous of the fate of all who chose to accompany you. And gave up the Silmaril for your lady.  
  
[while Beren is still frowning]  
  
All of which are compliments, given the circumstances and their source, since you're yet doubtful, Lord of Beor.  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay.  
  
[to Nerdanel]  
  
Thanks.  
  

Nerdanel: [to the Steward]  
    
How hast changed, and yet hast not, and yet art all other than thou wert, in the Wild world beyond!  
  

Beren:  
    
Please don't insult him, ma'am.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, nor did I, or is't insult in thy speech to say but that one has changed, from harshness and vainglory to gentleness of heart?  
  

Beren:  
    
No . . .  
  
[the Steward bows slightly]  
  

Steward:  
    
I believe that it is so, and do so hope, even as you speak, my lady.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I confess I must hold it a good thing, that thy heart's allegiance was at the last given unto my nephew, and not my son, else I deem this conversation should ne'er take place, nor thou stand guiltless of murder, nor find peace from battle hither.  
  

Steward: [very dry tone]  
    
Something of a most relative peace, my lady, I fear -- but indeed, your words, though sad, are in keeping with mine own thoughts as well.  
  

Beren: [breaking in]  
    
Hey, how come you're here?  
  
[as they all turn to stare at him]  
  
I mean, what about the meeting? How come you're not there, and what's going on?  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Talk \-- much talk, and little else.  
  

Beren: [ironic]  
    
Well, yeah, it's a council -- that's what's supposed to happen at them. Anything else, you got a problem.  
  
[the Sindarin lord visibly bites back a return]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, 'tis much talk of sundry things, and not so much as might be thought, of thee and thine own concerns, forasmuch as the gods' concern of all that is doth make the direction of the discourse to shift more indeed than e'en we Eldar at our conversing, and with less heed of time its passing.  
  

Steward:  
    
That is but half his question, my lady.  
  
[Nerdanel and the Ambassador share a wry Look]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thy lady is most obdurate, and requireth no further assurance of the rightness of her course, the which is all that I might well provide.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Our contributions were not considered relevant, milords.  
  

Beren: [dawning realization & growing amusement]  
    
You got thrown out.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
That is, I must say, rather an overstatement--  
  
[Beren shakes his head, grinning]  
  

Beren:  
    
You \-- got thrown out.  
  
[brief pause]  
  
  
That's great. That's just great--   
  
[he laughs out loud, then struggles to control his expression]  
  
Sorry, ma'am, I wasn't being insolent to you, it's just that it finally happened to someone else -- especially from Doriath--  
  
[with a sidelong Look at the Steward]  
  
\--About time, eh?  
  
[unable to help himself, he starts laughing again, ducking behind the Steward's back until he can regain his composure]  
  

Steward: [without irony or embarrassment]  
    
Gentles, I entreat you excuse my friend, in consideration of the trials of his present and recent situation.  
  

Ambassador: [mildly]  
    
I endeavor to remind myself of his extreme youth, which renders it more comprehensible.  
  

Nerdanel: [very curious]  
    
In truth, he hath so few of days?  
  

Steward:  
    
Alas, yes.  
  
[over beside the pool, Huan is wriggling and whining quietly, with his tail going nonstop, while the Captain looks at him indulgently]  
  

Captain:  
    
You don't have to stay here any more. We needed you to be cover for Beren last time, but that doesn't matter now. Go say hello if you want.  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp yip]  
  

Captain: [pushing his shoulder]  
    
Go on, don't be an idiot, you can go and greet her--  
  
[the Hound gets up, but stands hesitantly, looking back at the Captain for reassurance]  
  
Go on--  
  
[as if fired from a bow, the Lord of Dogs goes tearing across the Hall to where the others are standing]  
  

Teler Maid: [looking after Huan]  
    
You do like him greatly, even.  
  
[her former colleague nods apologetically]  
  
But you shouted at him much. To make him answer me fairly.  
  
[he nods again, and she puts her forehead down on her knees again -- it is clear she is crying, hidden behind her hair. He pats her on the head]  
  

Captain: [gently]  
    
You're not up to being shouted at, Curlew.  
  
[Huan comes skidding to a bouncing halt and looking adoringly at Nerdanel -- the Ambassador flinches back, though this is not noticed by his companions.]  
  

Nerdanel: [sadly but fondly]  
    
Oh, thou Hound -- little had I thought to see thee so soon!  
  

Beren:  
    
You know each other?  
  
[realizing]  
  
Of course you do.  
  

Nerdanel: [to Huan, seriously]  
    
Alas, I have brought nothing -- I did not even ken thou shouldst abide here, ere I heard the story of thee and these thy rife adventures, hence have I neither dainty nor trifle for thy pleasing -- moreover I much misdoubt I might give unto thee, as thou presently art, withal.  
  

Beren: [trying to be helpful]  
    
You could pretend to throw something, he likes that -- then he pretends to bring it back, or he just brings back all kinds of stuff, like rocks or pine cones until you give up and tell him he's won . . .  
  
[he trails off at the increasing grief visible in her expression despite her struggle to control it]  
  

Huan: [panting, grinning]  
    
[attention-seeking whines]  
  
[Nerdanel unthinkingly reaches out to pat him, and her hand goes through his muzzle, making them both recoil violently, the Hound flinging up his head in Very Startled Dog alarm]  
  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Oh--!  
  

Huan: [wild-eyed]  
    
[loud, repeated barking]  
  

Steward: [firm]  
    
Quiet, boy!  
  

Nerdanel: [covering her ears]  
    
Ai, yet else that hath not changed--!  
  
[Beren grabs the Hound's head like a horse's and pulls him down to shoulder height, making him stop for the moment]  
  

Beren:  
    
Why don't you go run up and down the Halls instead and work off some of that energy?  
  
[checking]  
  
I sound like a parent. --You go do that, and I'll whistle for you if we need you. Okay?  
  
[he lets go and whacks Huan on the flank, again as though shooing a horse out into the paddock, and the Hound bolts out the doorway, running low to the ground, ears trailing like a mad thing.]  
  
\--Bet we're all thinking the same thing.  
  

Steward:  
    
I trust were any immediately without -- we should have heard the cries of dismay by now.  
  

Nerdanel: [shaking her head]  
    
I mind me not that he was even so vast, in th'old Day--  
  

Ambassador:  
    
\--That \-- is Huan? That -- creature \-- captured our Luthien?  
  
[he looks very shaken]  
  

Steward:  
    
I assure you he is Good and would not harm any of like mind.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Aye, for all my son did most lamentably indulge him in his whims, yon Hound hath ever most mannerly and gently midst folk displayed his temper.  
  
[she is still rather sniffly & blinking hard]  
  

Beren: [half to himself]  
    
I -- don't expect you will, but, hey, might as well offer -- um, you want to come sit down with us, and talk more sociably instead?  
  
[he gestures towards their encampment]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I -- I think not, sir; the Hound has greatly unsettled my spirit.  
  

Beren:  
    
We won't let him jump on you when he comes back. Promise.   
  

Ambassador:  
    
. . .  
  
  

Steward: [shrewdly]  
    
Indeed, he is disquietingly like unto one, in seeming, at a glimpse.  
  
  
[Thingol's emissary draws himself up in useless pride, but does not deny the implication]  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. --I didn't think about that. Sorry. We're all just so used to Huan, but you don't know him, and you just got killed -- not long ago, at least -- by the Wolf. You did good not to run when he came charging up like that.  
  
[silence]  
  

Ambassador:  
  
    
Your accent grates heavily; less so your intent of courtesy.  
  
  
  

Beren:  
    
Er -- you're welcome.  
  
[doubtfully]  
  
So . . . what are you going to do? --Gentles.  
  
[Nerdanel is not missing any of the way her son's former friend reacts (and doesn't) to Beren's presence, and speaking, including taking control of the conversation, watching them both keenly. Now she replies, having managed to swallow her tears, and turns to include the Sindarin lord in her address:]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I, also, am even yet whelmed with the renewal of so many heart-deep griefs, and with such confounding news of the old land as ye have given to mine uncertain consideration -- if thou'ld be so kind, my lord, belike shalt companion me, and say unto me more, and fill the gaps of my comprehension with some measure of thine own informing; meanwhiles we shall but walk, and gaze upon the most strange and rare sights herein.  
  
[with a dash of her ordinary dry wit, nodding at the Ten]  
  
\--Nor mean I ye, nor else of yonder company.  
  

Beren: [dubious]  
    
Well, okay, but -- there's not much here to see. Except the Loom, I guess.  
  
[she shrugs]  
  

Nerdanel:  
  
    
Then I trust we shall see it, shall not, upon our meanderings?  
  
[she holds out her hand to the Ambassador, in a gracious, careful, gesture, not quite taking his arm, but very definitely walking with him, not evincing any fear or repugnance at his ghostly state, though clearly under so much stress right now that a little more or less would hardly make much difference. The Steward lays his hand on Beren's shoulder to turn him back towards their own group, then pauses and calls to the daughter of his family's hereditary liege lord:]  
  
  
  

Steward:  
  
    
I must inform you, gentles, that the Lady of this Hall has most stringently requested that none should interfere with her Loom.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I confess myself much curious, whence such injunct be deemed necessary. --My nephew must be sorely galled by the command.  
  
[it is the Doriathrin Ambassador's turn to laugh out loud briefly, if much more temperately than Beren]  
  
Doubt not, we'll meddle not.  
  
[as they begin their walk, she looks back over her shoulder at the Steward, and says meaningfully]  
  
\--Verily, youngling.  
  

Steward: [sighing heavily]  
    
That could have been far worse.  
  

Beren:  
    
Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you said that.  
  
[sighing in turn himself]  
  
Poor lady.  
  
[as the Steward frowns curiously at him]  
  
Saying Tinuviel was lucky, being married to me.  
  

Steward:  
    
I assure you, she was not referring to the brief duration of your match.  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Yeah -- and?  



	41. Scene IV.xvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.xvi

  
  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Council chamber. Everyone looks tired and serious and frustrated, in a let's-buckle-down-and-solve-this-now sort of way -- even Luthien has largely given up being sarcastic.]  
  

Luthien: [shortly]  
    
Why do you think that having "fewer distractions" will help any? Nothing is going to change. You want me to give up Beren, I won't. There's no middle ground for us to reach.  
  

Namo:  
    
What do you think should be done? So far you've only stated negatives.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Not true -- I want him to stay with me.  
  

Namo:  
    
But you have no concrete suggestions for how that could be accomplished. Staying here as discorporate spirits is not a workable solution -- for either of you, willing or not. It isn't right, and it will end with him hating you, and vice versa.  
  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien:  
    
All right, here's a concrete suggestion: consult your Queen and King for their advice. See what they say.  
  

Orome: [incredulous, leaning forward in his chair]  
    
You want us to ask Manwe and Varda for their opinion?  
  
[pause]  
  
Do you have any idea how long it would take to explain it all to them?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Oh, I don't think it would be very long at all. Don't they watch and listen to what happens everywhere in the world? I expect any parts they missed, Thorondor and his family would have told them about already.  
  

Vaire: [amused & appalled]  
  
    
Dear me, you really do think the heavens turn about you, child!  
  

Luthien:  
    
But you were all watching, mostly. Weren't you?  
  
  

Aule:  
    
Do you really -- without any reservation -- think this is of the same magnitude as the crisis following upon the Treeslaying  
  

Irmo:  
    
Crises.  
  
[at the other Lord's frown]  
  
There were multiple separate situations.  
  

Luthien: [simply]  
    
It is to us.  
  

Aule: [to Irmo]  
    
It's all part of the same mess.  
  

Irmo:  
    
But there are distinct and several causes, though they are connected causally as well as chronologically.  
  

Aule's Apprentice:  
    
I fear I must agree with my Master, that it's a mistake to isolate and focus on selected incidents, without considering them as belonging to a centrality of causation -- namely, the sad case of Feanor.  
  

Irmo:  
    
But there's no making sense of the disaster if you merely lump it all together and blame it on the Eldar.  
  

Orome: [in his most matter-of-fact, annoying tone]  
    
Look, it's very simple. It all started when we let him out. Therefore \-- we should never have let him out. I don't care what your sister says, she's just wrong.  
  
[this sets off a chaos of fellow deities all speaking, or shouting, at once]  
  

Vaire: [raising her voice over the fray]  
    
No, that's not true, Tav, Miriel's tragedy predated it--  
  
[Luthien sighs, and leans her chin on her hand, not looking hopeful of any quick end to this. Accidentally she catches Namo's eye as he lurks behind his teacup, shaking his head at it all, and as he quirks his brow at her she snaps her head away, not wanting to admit to a commonality of any sort. After a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she scrambles forward and dipping a handful out of the light basin, proceeds to start finger-spinning it as if it were a ball of carded roving with the same intent, pensive look as someone doodling on a clipboard during an interminable board-meeting...]  



	42. Scene IV.xviii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.xviii

  
  
  
    

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[Vaire, Irmo, Aule, Orome, and Aule's Assistant are all leaning forward in their chairs talking animatedly, while Namo sits back with an abstracted frown on his face, clearly thinking about something entirely different from their argument. Luthien is crosslegged on the floor next to the bowl of silver light, working intently on what looks rather like a cats'-cradle, except that when she lets go of the shining strands, they remain as if floating on water while she moves the other threads across them. She is not paying any more attention to the debaters than they are to her, at the moment . . .]  
  


Irmo:  
    
Yes, and doesn't that give you pause? The fact that someone who thinks that every problem can be solved by beating something up agrees with you? Ordinarily you wouldn't be claiming Tulkas' opinion as legitimizing your own!  
  

Aule: [growing impatience, waving his forefinger didactically]  
    
I didn't say that the fact that he agrees with us proves that we're right. I only mentioned his support as an example of the fact that diverse opinions -- and diverse personalities, and diverse viewpoints -- were united against the opposing position. Which--  
  
[another emphatic gesture]  
  
\--should indicate to some small degree that Nienna's stance was untenable and her overly-optimistic assessment of that wretch's state of mind should have been discounted by them from the beginning--  
  

Vaire: [speaking over him]  
    
\--Aule, it really isn't fair of you to characterize her position when Nia isn't here to articulate it for herself--  
  

Orome: [frowning]  
    
\--Why isn't she here? I don't understand it at all -- this is exactly the kind of situation where one would expect her to be in the thick of it, trying to smooth things over and make everybody happy--  
  
[Namo looks up at the door, just as Nienna's Apprentice enters, looking a little wild-eyed but not quite as stressed as before]  
  

Nienna's Apprentice:  
    
You called me, Sir? --Er, there's been no news from the search teams yet--  
  

Namo:  
    
Forget about that -- for now. I don't mean that literally, either. I just have something else I want you to look into for me.  
  
[he manifests a rolled scroll and holds it out to the Apprentice]  
  
You wanted to go dig in the Archives, well, you've got your wish. Get to it -- I want everything you can find about what's on there, as fast as you can find it.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But--  
  

Aule's Assistant: [shaking his head, very much in imitation of his Lord's manner and tone]  
    
Honestly, Olorin, I swear you're never contented. No wonder you can't settle down.  
  
[the other gives him a quick, disheartened look, but pulls himself together.]  
  
  

Apprentice: [to Namo:]  
    
Yes, my Lord. But -- what about keeping an eye on the stone?  
  

Namo:  
    
Get someone else to look after it -- or why don't you give me that toy of yours and then we won't have to worry about you forgetting while you're doing something else.  
  
[silently the Apprentice gives him the "sympathetic" version of the palantir and takes the list instead; Namo looks at the shiny bead doubtfully.]  
  
It does work, you're sure of it?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm -- I don't see why it shouldn't, at least.  
  

Namo: [flatly]  
    
Great. Just -- take care of this stuff quickly. And don't get distracted and start looking up unrelated things, all right?  
  
[turning back towards the door, his sister's student nods gloomily.]  
  

Vaire: [looking over from the discussion]  
    
Oh, and tell that dog of Tav's to stop running up and down the Halls barking, there's a dear, he's making my headache worse than it already is.  
  

Apprentice: [to the room at large, with exaggerated patience]  
    
Anybody want anything else while I'm at it? Cosmic harmony, anyone? The Silmarils? Just one, perhaps?  
  

Luthien: [bland]  
    
Just my husband, thanks.  
  
[she looks up with a raised eyebrow as his expression becomes briefly chagrined, but then he winks, quickly, so that her expression changes to a puzzled frown as she watches his departure.]  
  

Orome:[picking right back up where they left off]  
    
Now, if you ask me, what Varda should have done instead was . . .  


  
  


* * *

_To be continued…_


	43. Scene IV.xvii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xvii**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall: beside the falls, where the story has apparently concluded for the moment]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I still cannot fathom it that none of your families stood by you, but only by.  
  
[pause]  
  
My lady will be most put out with Lord Orodreth.  
  
[the Captain chuckles at that, and she is affronted]  
  
I know her well, and I am most certainly right!  
  

Captain: [dismissive motion]  
    
Yes, yes, that's not why I'm laughing. I -- couldn't help but imagine the Prince's mother scolding him, and what they might say.  
  

Steward:  
    
It isn't at all funny.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh, come on, can't you just hear Lady Earwen going--  
  

Teler Maid: [louder and more emphatic]  
    
\--But still less do I fathom it out that Lord Olwe's brother and his wife locked their child away -- has any one of ye ever heard of such a thing?! What right had they to do thusly?  
  
[on the other side of the Hall, where Nerdanel and the Ambassador are surveying the Loom, the Ambassador turns and looks over at her, then quickly pretends he didn't hear]  
  
If they did not approve of her chosen, then indeed had they right to say so, even as Lady Amarie's kinfolk, and make it clear wherefore they thought the choice not wise, or--  
  
[looking directly at her ex]  
  
\--as my own family -- and perhaps yours, for all your denials to them of intent towards me -- did make it clear, but to set a wall and a ward against their own, as were an enemy -- or as if they were of the Enemy, keeping her thrall! What have Elves come to, in the time between!  
  

Steward:  
    
In fairness, it was not until she threatened to follow Beren into Angband that the King and his counsel made such restraints upon the Princess, for her own safety.  
  

Teler Maid: [heated]  
    
So, they set themselves above the gods, then! For it is little different, I think, between his lady seeking to redeem him from the Enemy in a far-off land, and your lord Feanor seeking to rescue his treasures from the Enemy in distant journey--  
  
[several of the Ten protest her use of the pronoun "your", but quietly]   
  
\--and they did not stop you, nor seek to do so by other means than persuading words, and yet it was the same manner of dangers, that you did risk and she did risk, that they did lock her up!  
  
[somber silence]  
  

Beren:  
    
I hadn't thought of it that way. Her parents wouldn't like to hear it -- but Tinuviel would agree with you, absolutely.  
  

Teler Maid: [sharply]  
    
And you do not?  
  

Beren: [dismayed]  
    
I didn't say that.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But did you not imply it?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um -- no.  
  
[aside]  
  
Wow, someone who's even more paranoid than I am--  
  
[at his unintentional remark she snorts indignantly]  
  

Captain:  
    
Maiwe, calm down. Not everyone is out to get you. In fact, no one, here, is out to get you.  
  
[she looks away, scowling, just as the Youngest Ranger starts to attention and directs his companions' attention towards the door, through which now enter the Lord Seneschal of Formenos and the Lord Warden of Aglon -- but accompanied by some dozen or so extras, "gentles-at-arms," clearly looking for trouble. The Sea-elf freezes, looking ready to leap up and flee.]  
  
\--Not even them. Actually, they're after me, most likely.  
  
[as the hostile shades approach]  
  

Soldier:  
    
What should we do, sir?  
  

Captain:  
    
Maintain a defensive perimeter -- that's what we're best at, after all, isn't it?  
  
[there are dark grins and laughter from several of the other Elves]  
  

Ranger:  
    
What about you, sir?  
  

Captain: [flexing his bad wrist carefully]  
    
I'll manage, if I must. But we'll try to keep it from getting that far.  
  
[he looks at Beren very seriously while the rest of the Ten get up and arrange themselves in a serried, if informal, rank against the intruders]  
  
You're going to stay here, and you're going to stay out of it. No arguments. I don't know what will happen if you get hurt, and the more I've thought about it the less I like the notion. You're taking no chances. Understood?  
  

Beren: [unhappy]  
    
Yes, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
In fact, call Huan back -- he can do his job and look after you now.  
  

Beren:  
    
But--  
  

Captain: [setting his hand on Beren's head as if talking to a much younger sibling]  
    
\--You call him, or I will. The only options, lad.  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
Okay.  
  
[he whistles, several short, high notes, as if calling any ordinary dog, and remains kneeling by the waterside as the Captain rises, followed by the Elven girl.]  
  

Captain: [to his former colleague, just as seriously]  
    
Curlew, this could get -- rowdy. You probably don't want to be around for it, and I certainly don't want you hurt, even if you'll not leave this Circle for it.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do not tell me what to do!  
  

Captain: [sad half-smile]  
    
I didn't.  
  
[turning away he goes to the center of the group, shouldering through to stand on the Steward's right, facing the Lord Seneschal. The Sea-elf tags along, hanging back a little, with a worried expression, but not willing to stay out of it]  
  
Quick learners. --Now why don't you learn even faster and stop this before you come out the worst again, eh?  
  

Formenos:  
    
Shall we hazard upon it, in your foreign custom, then?  
  

Aglon:  
    
My quarrel's not with you, anyway.   
  
[he is staring menacingly at the Youngest Ranger]  
  

Captain:  
    
As a matter of fact, it is. He acted but under my orders. [none of them appear to notice that the Doriathrin shade and the Noldor lady have left their sightseeing and come to stand at the side of the dispute, attending closely]  
  

Aglon:  
    
Nevertheless I'll not fight you, my lord.  
  

Captain: [approving]  
    
A prudent policy.  
  

Formenos: [cynical smile]  
    
And a prudent bluff, huntsman. The White Lady mentioned your clumsiness, and its consequences, and thus incidentally explained your carefulness to avoid outright combat at our last encounter. Thus -- we will not quarrel with you: our numbers are but to ensure fairness, that none should interfere in what passes.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then they will interfere with nothing, for the responsibility for what transpired is entirely mine, and I will not allow it to pass to those who but followed my commands. --Immortal or mortal.  
  

Aglon: [very proud]  
    
That may be, but I will not fight you, for my honor's sake, while you are injured. If you wish me to treat you as worthy adversary, restore yourself, and I will engage you, sir.  
  
    
[the shade from Alqualonde edges between the two subordinate Rangers, standing with her arms folded and an imperious look on her face]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What is this "honor" that I hear you speak so much of? Will it keep you from smiting me, then?  
  
[he makes a disdainful gesture]  
  

Aglon:  
    
I don't fight children. Or maidens.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I recollect otherwise.  
  

Formenos: [gallant & disarming - if you didn't know better]  
    
And who might this charming creature be?  
  

Teler Maid: [defiant]  
    
\--"Collateral damage" -- I think that is what you have called us.  
  

Formenos: [shaking his head]  
    
I've never had dealings with your folk -- I was the first killed in Middle-earth, after our noble lord was foully murdered by the same demons that slew me.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
False, false, false!!!  
  

Formenos: [frowning]  
    
Are you not his true-love, following him hither?  
  
[he nods towards the Youngest Ranger]  
  

Teler Maid: [indignant]  
    
I am from the Havens! Can you not tell the differences 'twixt us?  
  

Formenos:  
    
Ah. My error: I do apologize, that I did not at once recognize you one of the Calaquendi, if Latecomer.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You -- do make apology for misnaming me -- but not for killing me? What madness is this?!  
  

Formenos: [voice of reason]  
    
Blame your elders, for their selfishness, not us. Blame your king, not ours.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [shortly]  
    
You brought your troubles on yourself.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Go back to your trees, Dark-elf. --Or else fight me, if you wish to consider yourself truly Eldar.  
  

Captain:  
    
Now then, what's wrong with tr--  
  

Teler Maid: [interrupting, sharply to the Feanorian lords]  
    
Do not -- not speak so!  
  
[she is so upset that she is stammering, but stamps her foot emphatically]  
  

Formenos: [bored]  
    
Be quiet, infant, and return to the Hall of Play.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Oh!  
  
[in the background, Finarfin and Amarie enter the Hall via the archway, together, and taking in the scene of conflict, come quickly over]  
  

Aglon:  
    
Well, boy, if you will not give me satisfaction by honorable duel, then I must take it as I can -- if you've the courage for it: is it not your people's way to flee from blows rather than return them, to fight from cover and to vanish before retribution falls?  
  
[the Sindarin Ranger does not answer him, except to clench his jaw, standing his ground, the tension in his companions rising as tempers are held forcibly in check]  
  

Steward: [slow emphasis]  
  
    
Leave -- him -- be.  
  
[the Lord Warden smiles and moves forward threateningly; while the nearer of the Ten move to grab him, the Sea-elf darts in between to obstruct his path completely, scowling up at the taller Noldor warrior.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Go away!  
  
[the Warden of Aglon doesn't answer -- instead he takes her by the shoulder and spins her aside, continuing to push towards the Sindarin Ranger. Without another word, the Steward reaches to his right, rips the Captain's sword from its scabbard and runs the Feanorian through -- no flare, all business. The wounded Elf crumples to his knees as the blade is withdrawn, while his companions stare at the assailant quite aghast--]  
  

Steward: [cold]  
    
You should have listened.  
  
[several of the victim's friends kneel around him, trying to help him get up]  
  

Formenos:  
    
But -- he had not drawn yet!  
  

Captain: [disgusted]  
    
Sweet Cuivienen, can't you tell us apart, either? That's me, not him.  
  

Formenos: [shouting at the Steward]  
    
Where is your honor!?!  
  

Steward: [calm & obnoxiously complacent tone]  
    
If by honor you mean a willingness to be cheated without complaint -- I fear that remained with the rest of my belongings in Nargothrond.  
  
[raising an eyebrow]  
  
Anyone else wishing to try my patience? None?  
  
[he reverses the hilt and returns the Captain's sword with a gracious nod]  
  
\--Much obliged, my lord.  
  

Captain: [loftily]  
    
Any time, any time--  
  
[to the hostile Elves]  
  
\--Dolts.  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
That was better, but you still leave yourself wide open laterally when you lunge that way--  
  

Amarie: [outraged]  
    
Ai, what hast thou done?!?  
  
[giving up the effort, the Warden of Aglon vanishes with a final grimace of agony -- the Teler Maid shrieks, cutting it off at once by clapping her hands to her mouth.]  
  
\--Minion of the Enemy thou art in truth!  
  
[there is a moment of shock as everyone stares at each other, and the Ten realize who all was watching and what it looked like]  
  

First Guard: [to Amarie]  
    
Milady, it wasn't what it seemed--  
  

Steward: [looking only at the Sea-elf's horrified expression]  
    
Yes, it was.  
  
[he shakes his head, laughing quietly and hopelessly]  
  
\--Of course.  
  

Formenos: [enraged almost beyond speech]  
    
You--  
  
[tries again]  
  
Indeed, you were well-disguised as Morgoth's vermin! I wonder that you needed any camouflage at all!  
  

Nerdanel: [tense]  
    
Thou seest the error of thy ways, then?  
  
[he does not look at her nor otherwise acknowledge her words]  
  
  

Finarfin: [very harshly]  
    
I am most grieviously disappoint in thee, young sir. 'Tis well thou art restrained, within these Hall's confine, and all such destroying souls.   
  

Captain: [earnest]  
    
But you really shouldn't count this against him, as if he too were no more than a Kinslayer, because none of it was real.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Upon the contrary -- though thy loyalty aye deserveth praise -- nor thou nor he can answer me that 'twas not done in th'intent of the deed its fullness, nor that the wish and will of't was to act and it were most potently the very blade 'gainst yon rival's flesh, save merely that these phantasmic figurations must needs serve in place for ye.  
  
[looking sternly at the Steward, who is still gazing in bleak dismay at the Teler Maid, who has recovered somewhat from her emotions at the mayhem and is staring at him with a very troubled expression of mingled revulsion and worry]  
  
\--Nay, canst thou, Enedrion? For thou didst belie me with the truth, but not the full of it, when at our first meeting thou didst make of merest need but virtue, nor confess that thou might not speak other than of truth, to set thyself higher in my estimation.  
  

Steward: [hollowly]  
    
Indeed, your words are true, my lord Finarfin -- all of them.  
  

Captain: [still more earnestly]  
    
But he wouldn't have done it, if it would have had any real effect on that nitwit.  
  
[No one denies this assertion]  
  

Amarie: [tightly]   
    
Mayhap -- yet still 'twas a deed most wanton, violent, and bloody--  
  
[glancing at the entirely-unmarked floor, grimacing, and is forced to add:]  
  
\--in yon ghostly fashion.  
  

Formenos:  
    
I'll serve you now in kind, Enedrion--  
  
[he draws his sword, advancing on the Steward, who does not pay any attention to him]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, answer me, that didst answer to me in the Day, and wast even Keeper of our household stores, when yet was peace in Tirion!  
  
[she moves to bar his way, her eyes flashing indignation, but he still ignores her -- even though refusing to admit her presence means he must walk right through her, (sfx) leaving her mute with shock and anger]  
  

Captain: [blocking the Seneschal of Formenos far more effectively]  
    
You don't exist, my lady -- as far as they're concerned. Sorry about that--   
  
[to the other warrior]  
  
\--Not you.  
  

Formenos:  
    
I will not fight you unprovoked, and play into your games, King's Fool.  
  

Captain:  
    
All right.  
  
[smashes him hard across the face, backhanded, almost knocking him over]  
  
How's that?  
  
[with a roar of fury, the Lord Seneschal rallies, so quickly the Captain barely has time to get his blade free and parry -- but he does. If the hits taken in the last duel are bothering him, it isn't obvious, as they "have at it" in a flurry of blows in the suddenly-widening circle that forms around them. Beren leaps to his feet, but obeys orders, though his anguish at doing so is obvious; the Teler Maid covers her ears, wincing at each blow, just as distressed as the human, if not for exactly the same reasons.]  
  

Finarfin: [shocked but not at all uncertainly]  
    
\--Hold!!!  
  
[there is Power in his word as well as anger: in momentary surprise the combatants stop, but only for a moment -- although the Captain obeys, the Seneschal presses the advantage, forcing him upon the defense again]  
  

Captain:  
    
Sorry, Sir--  
  
[they set to savagely again, no quarter on either side, just the same kind of ruthless fighting as against Eol earlier; the Captain stumbles, and this time it's no "accident" -- but as the Feanorian lord moves in for the kill his sword-hand is transfixed with a very real-seeming arrow, and as he tries to recover with his left, looking as all do to the source of the shot, his opponent regains his footing and presents once more no easy target. The Youngest Ranger is kneeling with another arrow knocked and already set to loose.]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [terse]  
    
Next time, your eye.  
  
[there is a pause, a sort of momentary truce, or rather recognition of impasse, and one of the other supporters of House Feanor comes up and sets about drawing the arrow, casting the pieces aside into thin air.]  
  

Formenos: [disgusted]  
    
\--Damnéd archers! No honor whatsoever.  
  
[both the Ambassador and Amarie start to say something, but whatever it is is cut off by the baying from without, as Huan returns -- with rider. As the Lord of Dogs and the Lord of Caves make their dramatic entrance, five very bemused law-abiding Eldar alternate staring from each other to the newly arrived to the denizens who seem to regard this as nearly, if not the height of normality.]  
  

Nerdanel: [aside]  
    
Hall of Play, in truth!  
  
[Finarfin gives her a surprised Look; explaining:]  
  
Hath not any ridden Huan since of thine and mine the youngest were little more than babes.  
  
[her brother-in-law nods ruefully, as his eldest son's ghost dismounts and strides over, looking around first to make sure that Beren is all right, as Huan plows through everyone else, still barking fit to raise the roof, to get to Beren himself]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Would anyone care to explain to me what's going on?  
  
[there is a chaos of everyone talking at once -- the Lord Warden of Aglon remanifests to make his case personally, much to the startlement of the living witnesses; Finrod waits until the roar dies down somewhat.]  
  
Now, -- would anyone care to explain to me what's going on?  
  

Steward:  
    
There were words, escalating towards blows. I struck first. All else followed from that.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Whence the provocation?  
  

Steward: [before anyone else, and louder]  
    
From both sides.  
  

Formenos:  
    
No insult had been offered you, you slave of a slave, but you cut him down without warning nonetheless!  
  

Amarie: [earnest]  
    
Though little had I e'er thought, that I should speak in such as that one's just defense, he doth speak truly: 'twas a blow most villainous and cruel -- if 'tis not falsehood in its own right, to imply withal that any might be otherwise!  
  

Aglon: [furious]  
    
And I will take my recompense in the same way, d'you hear?!  
  

Steward: [chill calm]  
    
I will accept such, if it is my lord's decree.  
  
    
[the Teler Maid stares at him, her face frozen]  
  

Aglon:  
    
As if he'd ever give fair judgment against any of his own!  
  
[loud jeering and countering from the Ten, matched by their Feanorian opponents, with even a few barks from Huan added in; Finrod holds up his hand for silence, and there is instant attention from all, adversaries and supporters alike]  
  

Finrod:  
    
The temptation is strong to take the way of water and avoiding resistance give you both what it is you wish--  
  
[looking at the Warden]  
  
\--to you, satisfaction of your anger, and to you,  
  
[turning to the Steward]  
  
\--expiation, of yours. But--  
  
[smiling grimly, to the Warden]  
  
\--in no small measure is that owing to the desire to let you make a poorer showing than you already have, disgracing yourself in the sight of the living and the dead, as well as the gods. Which is not justice, at all.  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
No, it is too complicated. I cannot decide: I must defer this entirely to a higher authority.  
  

Formenos: [snorting]  
    
I trust your uncle to give us fair hearing no more than I trust you, Finarfinion.  
  

Finrod: [still graciously]  
    
Not the High King, I'm afraid -- I meant an authority that outranks all of us, living or dead, royal or no. Take your complaint of my people's conduct to Lord Namo or his Lady, and let them judge it, and whatever finding is theirs in this matter, we will submit to -- however little it is to our liking.  
  
[he matches stares with the chief lords of House Feanor's supporters in Mandos, and does not give any sign of uncertainty, until finally after a long moment, the Lord Seneschal, still cradling his right arm, nods to his people and the hostile contingent storms out in a jostling, angrily-glaring mob.]  
  
Sorry, that took a lot longer than I expected. I see you've got things under control, though. Good idea sending Huan for me right away.  
  

Captain:  
    
Er, well, actually--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh -- more of his own initiative, I take it?  
  

Captain:  
  
    
He didn't tell you? [his lord chuckles briefly, thinking it's only a joke. Beren, with Huan at heel, comes up quietly now that the immediate danger is past, not interrupting]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
So easily you dismiss them, Sire, and have full confidence they will not return when your guard is down, to take the vengeance they hold to be their own? --And yes, I am here, and would rather not be, whatever possible construction you wish to place upon that statement, and I have equal confidence in your Majesty's courtesy and intuition revealing my wish not to dwell upon any particulars of it.  
  
[Finrod gives him a pensive Look, but honors his request, answering him only (while maintaining an aloof disinterest in his family members standing nearby)]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh, they won't take it any further. They'd have to explain to the Lord of the Halls, in detail, you see, and even for them it would be difficult to justify their motivations, and so they'll simply drop it. --They might bring it up again when the next trouble starts--  
  
[looking at the Steward]  
\--and you'll probably never hear the end of it.  
  

Steward:  
    
My lord, I--   
  

Finrod: [putting a hand on his shoulder]  
  
    
If they succeeded in provoking you, it must have been bad. I trust -- that your conscience is more than equal to any reprimand I might bestow on you, my friend.  
  
[he turns to look at the others -- and frowns in amazement]  
  
What are you doing here, Maiwe?   
  

Teler Maid: [bitterly]  
    
Trailing about after him, what else to expect?  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Oh.  
  
[he starts to ask further, then defers it for later. To the others:]  
  
What's been going on, while I've been busy elsewhere?  
  

Steward:  
    
Your brother Aegnor returned and provided us with some diverting moments, I fear.  
  

Finrod: [sighing]  
    
Yes, I've given him a bit of a talking-to about that. I don't think it'll happen again. Anything else? What set that lot off?  
  

First Guard:  
    
They came looking for trouble and found it. The Lord Seneschal's flunkey went to kick Beren for -- if you'll believe it, my lord -- discourtesy.  
  

Finrod: [with an angry snort]  
    
What then?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [embarrassed at drawing attention to himself]  
    
I -- Sire, I -- I knocked him down and bashed him in the knee. But the other way round. That's why he wanted -- wanted to challenge me.  
  

Finrod: [warmly]  
    
Good job. Don't worry about it -- either of you--  
  
[he looks at the Steward]  
  
\--they won't take it further, I'll warrant. And if they do, we'll deal with it then. I need a volunteer for a quick errand, now--  

Finarfin:  
    
What dost thou presently, indeed?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [very guarded tone]  
    
Why do you ask?  
  

Finarfin  
    
I had but concern, for these thine own concerns, that seeketh to fulfill its own lack by learning how all doth transpire, perchance to aid.  
  
[longer pause]  
  

Finrod: [formal politeness, undercut by irony]  
    
The concerns of the dead are not yours, Sire, nor, I believe, is there anything your will may accomplish here. --Unless you claim Lord Namo's role here in addition to your own lawful title -- which I somehow doubt is the case.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, my son -- I seek to compel thee not.  
  
[they stare at each other for a brief moment, taut and unhappy; but this time their position is subtly reversed, with Finrod being the one giving stinging barbs and Finarfin the wary, restrained recipient of them.]  
  

Finrod: [turning back to his following]  
    
All right then, who among us is worst at chess? All forms of it -- and doesn't like it, either. It's no good if he can tell you enjoy learning, you'll never break free.   
  
[the Third Guard steps forward, and Finrod gives an approving nod.]  
  
Please go and ask my uncle to come here, without delay, as a favour to me. Phrase it as graciously as you can, but make sure it's clear that I need him to come talk to me now, not six hundred years from now, and I do mean here. Er -- not in those words, of course.  
  
[the Guard bows and hurries off, leaving Finrod to deal with his family and others. He looks at them a bit warily, recognizing that there is something going on, but not having any information as to the source of their (additional) tension. Polite:]  
  
Did you wish to speak to me, father?  
  

Finarfin: [equally]  
    
An thou'lt not converse upon thy present concerns, belike thou might willingly relate some account of thy kingdom, yon realm that thou didst found for thyself upon the other shore, and the workings of thy rule.  
  

Finrod: [bemused]  
    
You want to hear about Nargothrond? I shouldn't have thought you'd be interested in the forbidden doings of a bunch of rebels, now.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, but ever must parents wonder and yearn for word of children's faring, doubt it not, though thou hast none.  
  
[there is an awkward moment]  
  

Finrod: [clapping his hands together]  
    
Very well, why don't we make ourselves comfortable over there and we can try to give you something of an idea, at the least, of what we've been up to on the other side of the Sea.  
  
[he gestures towards the falls, and there is another awkward moment, as the four guests look at each other, and at him, uncomfortable but not willing to be the first to speak.]  
  
Is there a problem, then?  
  

Captain: [smoothly interjecting]  
    
I'm rather afraid that milord your father is overwhelmed by our inability to recount tales singly and in good order, your noble aunt still very much unsettled by so many houseless spirits, your lady wife wishing us very much still at the other side of the Sea, or better yet the bottom of it, and your royal uncle's servant thinking nigh the same of the Beoring. Have I read the situation aright, gentles all?  
  
[four rather chill Looks would seem to indicate so]  
  

Finrod: [wry]  
    
This is as bad as diplomacy back home. I might as well not have died, for all the good it did me. Very well, then--  
  
[he looks around, oblivious to the reflexive flinches of his family and the background collecting of a wager by the Youngest Ranger, and shakes his head]  
  
I'm afraid there are only the two chairs, and I really don't dare move them--  
  
[brief expressions of confusion are replaced by utter bemusement as they realize which "chairs" he is referring to]  
  
\--so it seems there is only the rather rustic alternative over there--  
  
[pointing to the hill]  
  
\--if you do not find that unacceptable.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Surely none of our race could ever object to the comfort of the greensward, but one must ask of direst curiosity -- whence comes a piece of the growing earth to enliven these sunless Halls?  
  

Finrod:  
    
A gift, lent by the grace of Lady Nessa, I hear tell.  
  
[with a polite, edged smile to Amarie]  
It is both real, and untainted by any rebellious craftsmanship, my lady--  
  
[her lips tighten, but she does not retort]  
  

Nerdanel: [firmly]  
    
\--Nephew. Keep thy private quarrels to home. --Thou kennst well what I do intend; moreover, herein lieth not thy true home.  
  
[he stops, forestalled before he can respond, a touch chagrined.]  
  

Finarfin: [soothing]  
    
Ample accommodation, in truth, and a most pleasant spot, yon turfen hill -- to which, gentles, let us repair, that we may hear the wondrous and most strange news from the land of our Awakening.  
  
[with a shepherding gesture he takes Amarie's hand and motions the others to accompany them, allowing no room for objection]  
  

Beren: [aside to Finrod]  
    
Is this? -- I mean -- you -- you know-  
  
[looking over at Finarfin and the others, raising his eyebrows]  
  

Finrod: [blunt]  
    
No, I'd rather be thrown off a cliff than deal with them, as you correctly surmise. But in courtesy, they can't be left to their own devices, and absent any higher authority to foist them off on, it falls to me to entertain them. Don't worry, I'll survive -- so to speak.  
  
[squaring his shoulders, he assumes a look of determined pleasant calm and goes to play the part of the lordly host among welcome guests, leaving worried companions behind]  
  

Beren: [alarmed, aside to the Steward]  
    
Does he know?  
  

Captain:  
    
Know what?  
  

Beren:  
    
\--He doesn't, does he?  
  
[narrowing his brows, the Steward shakes his head]  
  

Steward:  
    
I do not see how it is possible he should.  
  

Beren:  
    
I bet his dad's not going to say anything, either.  
  

Captain:  
    
Oh-h.  
  
[he grimaces, glancing quickly over to the hill]  
  

Beren: [looking across and back]  
    
This isn't good. --Do you think that all of 'em know?  
  
[the Steward follows suit as well]  
  

Steward:  
    
Most probably.  
  
[Beren & the Captain wince]  
  

Beren:  
    
Except him. Nothing we can do about it, though, is there?  
  

Steward: [nodding towards the rest of the Ten & companions]  
    
No, save trouble our friends to no purpose by our conversing on it.  
  
[the Sea-Elf, suspicious, comes up to their urgent consultation and demands:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do you talk of me?  
  

Captain: [gently]  
    
\--No.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
I don't think there's anything we can do, that won't make things more difficult than less all round.  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
I see no discreet way of imparting the information to our lord at present.  
  
[the Elven-maid continues to stand there, with a chafing expression, caught in the awkward state of bystanding a conversation without belonging to it and not wanting to go away in embarrassment or to cause a scene; she looks up frowning darkly at the Steward, who glances down at her in the same moment, and very seriously moves aside a little, leaving a deliberate place for her. After a moment she steps in a little closer, her arms folded, still wary and half-outsider]  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
Hm.  
  

Teler Maid: [after another hesitation]  
    
What would you have him know?  
  

Beren:  
    
He doesn't know that they didn't know what happened to us and now they know, and they don't know that he didn't know they didn't know, and that now they know. And they said things to each other that they probably wouldn't have if they'd known -- mostly his dad. And Amarie. And now he's saying stuff back, and they're not going to know what to say.  
  
[longish pause]  

Teler Maid:  
    
I could go and say that someone needs him without, and then tell him myself when we are from here.  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes, but then they're bound to ask him what the matter was, when he gets back, and it's the same problem, I'm afraid.  
  

Beren:  
    
Good idea, though.  
  

Captain:  
    
Nothing for it but to hope Himself doesn't say anything too sharp, before a chance to apprise him comes along.  
  
[he shakes his head, sighing]  
  

Beren: [deadpan]  
    
He might figure it out anyway. He's pretty smart.  
  
[the Elven-girl looks at him strangely]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
That is a most simple and manifest thing to say -- yet I do not think you are simple of wit -- so why say you what all well know, that Lord Ingold is most wise and clear-sighted?  
  
[Beren shrugs, a bit embarrassed]  
  

Captain:  
    
That's more mortal humor.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
'Tis strange.  
  

Captain:  
    
It is indeed.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid: [frowning, changing the subject]  
    
What is that matter of chess Lord Ingold did speak of? For I think it must be a pastime, but I know it not.  
  
[Beren and the Captain share a Significant Look, while the Steward covers his face with his hand]  
  

Beren:  
    
I think we can find someone to teach you.  
  

Steward:  
    
\--No. That would not be prudent.  
  
[as the Sea-elf looks at him with an uncertain expression half between automatic outrage and wariness, Beren is the picture of injured innocence]  
  

Beren: [bewildered]  
    
I wasn't talking about you. I don't know why in the world you would think I was meaning you, sir -- it's like you think I've got nothing better to do than cause trouble for you--  
  
[the Steward gives him an eyebrow-raised Look of arctic frostiness, while he continues to protest disingenuously]  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Captain, decidedly]  
    
'Tis very strange indeed.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--I mean, we all know how to play chess, I don't see why--  
  

Steward: [curious, resting his hands on the mortal's shoulders]  
    
\--Beren, what would you do, if I did indeed answer you as from your tales you would expect your cousins to have answered such incessant japery, by half-wringing your neck in jest or impelling you beneath the outlet of yonder cascade?  
  
[pause -- Beren looks up at the much-taller shade thoughtfully.]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'd win, on account of having made you respond without using any words again.   
  
[brief pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
\--Hina.  
  
[he brushes his knuckles lightly against Beren's cheek, almost smiling, and turns to the falls, going over to where Finrod left his harp -- instead of sitting down apart, however, he carries it to where their comrades are waiting, uncertain as to what's all going on, and takes his place in their midst, to their obvious pleasure, and begins to play very quietly.]  
  

Teler Maid: [troubled]  
    
Why does it misgive you not, that he dismiss you as but a child?  
  
[Beren shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
Kinsman.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
No -- the word is child, in their speech--  
  
[she nods sharply, including the Captain and all the Ten (& even Huan) in her gesture, all of her insecurities coming to the fore in her tone]  
  

Beren: [gently]  
    
But it means kinsman, when he says it to me.  
  
[she looks back and forth to see if they're teasing her, and then across at the Steward, providing background music for the warriors' conversation and games, and appears distraught.]  
  
C'mon, somebody over here can teach you how to play chess, if you really want.  
  

Teler Maid: [fretful]  
    
I do not know what I want.  
  
[but she accompanies them back to the waterside nonetheless.]  



	44. Scene IV.xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE IV.xx

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the council chamber]  
  
[Luthien is still hand-weaving away, the pattern having expanded significantly in width and complexity since last we saw it -- still apparently paying no attention to the verbal battle in full spate over her head. At the moment the Lord of Dreams is upbraiding the Hunter with atypical acrimony:]  
  

Irmo:  
    
No, the real problem was the failure of you and your people to finish routing out all of Melkor's beastly followers and properly destroy all of his property so he couldn't use it again. That would have forestalled his ability to wage a second subversion of the Light by giving him no resources to fall back on.  
  
[jabbing his finger repeatedly upon the arm of his chair as he castigates Orome]  
  
However, you didn't eradicate his support structures, and as a consequence, he was able to wreak havoc without even having to be in Middle-earth -- and he had a ready-made base of operations to encourage him to make such a move, which he wouldn't likely have done if he hadn't had any safe bolt-hole and servants to defend himself with. He was always a careful and cautious sort, not the type to act if he thought he was likely to come out the worst of it. So at the least your neglect is responsible for encouraging him--  
  

Orome: [slouching back, very blasé -- and calculated to annoy]  
    
Pfft -- you think he knew that all his surviving cronies had survived and scuttled themselves away deep underground to regroup and rebuild? That git was in solitary confinement, and after he was released it wasn't like he had any Messengers flying over the Sea to bring him news. I didn't see any, at least. And I don't think any of the Sea's People would have been gossiping with him, do you? Not even Osse would give him the grace of the Hour, even after he "reformed."  
  
  
[frowning, Luthien reaches over and helps herself to some more of the glowing dew, spinning more luminous strands from it to add to her project]  
  

Irmo: [agitated]  
    
Of course he knew -- he's tied himself into everything he can reach over there, haven't you been following the news? Or did you just give up your job and retire to a country life when the Eldar embarked for this shore? I'm telling you, Tav, that you're being very, very, blind if you go on insisting it's all Nia's fault, and ignoring the fact that your failures contributed at least as much to the disaster as anyth--  
  

Vaire:  
    
But you're forgetting the Spider, brother. --And the fact that logic and self-interest had very little part in anyone's response to the Silmarils. Rational or not, I am quite certain myself, that he would have tried to take them eventually -- even if he had been unable to enlist Her help in it.  
  
[pause]  
  

Irmo:  
    
Perhaps that's so. But even if it is, your negligence made it possible for him to re-entrench himself with minimal effort, whereas if you'd properly destroyed all of his Works he would have had to start from scratch, and then, regardless of what happened here, someone would have been able to deal with him over there -- whether us, or the rebels, or all of us together if there'd been no rebellion--  
  

Orome: [a slightly-nettled tone creeping in despite his efforts]  
    
\--We spent decades mopping up. Whatever we missed was impossible to find. Anyone, anything that slipped through did so because of Fate. We pounded that place flat. There were no obvious -- or unobvious -- hiding-holes left when we finished.  
  
[Namo shakes his head, gazing into his teacup with a melancholy expression as he gently swirls it about]  
  

Irmo:  
    
Nonsense. You didn't try hard enough. Surely your specialists could have done a more thorough job of tracking the rest of his crew down -- combined with selective tectonic realignment--  
  

Aule: [sharply]  
    
You haven't the least notion what you're talking about. I could explain it to you, if you'd pay attention long enough, but I think you can understand when I say -- again \-- that one doesn't -- doesn't, do you understand? -- muck about with the basic structures of the world without dire consequences. It would have been a fine thing, would it not, to eradicate the very people we were put here to protect, in the process of saving them from their enemies?  
  

Orome: [with a dubious look at the Smith]  
    
\--Though I do wonder how much of your concern was for the Firstborn, and how much for your own Children? Honestly, what possessed you--  
  
[Aule's Assistant leaps (figuratively) into the fray before it gets even uglier]  
  

Aule's Assistant: [urgent]  
    
\--Please, please, please! Noble ones, gentles all! We are not here to refight old defeats, really now, are we? --If you will forgive my impertinence in saying so, of course.  
  
[abashed silence all around]  
  
Now, we are here, if again you will permit me to go so far as to state the obvious, for the purpose of solving the problem of this anomalous mortal presence. And -- though I am but young in the Song by comparison to you, my Lord -- my Lords, my Lady -- still, I might venture to say that it seems to me that there might well be an acceptable solution, if you will graciously hear me out . . . ?  
  
Luthien looks up with a sudden eagerness that belies her apparent obliviousness and uninterest in all that's been going on, her eyes blazing, letting the threads of liquid light fall from her hands unheeded]  
  

Luthien: [fiercely passionate]  
    
\--What?  


  


* * *

_To be continued . . ._   



	45. Scene IV.xix - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL! BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xix**

  
  
  
[the Hall: the Ten and Beren are teaching the Sea-elf how to play chess, while over on the Hill Finrod is sitting on the grass with an air of assumed nonchalance in the midst a group distinguished by extreme discomfort, where none of the participants are at ease with each other for a spectrum of reasons, ranging from guilt to anger to distaste for witnessing family tension to conversing with the dead/the living, and the peace is extremely fragile--]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
For how long didst thou hold sway over the Havens of Balar, then?  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
No, I thought I made that clear -- we were allied with the coasts, and maintained the defenses at Brithombar and Eglarest as well as as improving the shipyards in the south, but I never administered those areas. Lord Cirdan and I were friends, but he was never my subject; it would have been absurd for one as inexperienced as I, and a foreigner, to claim dominion over the Sea-elves of Beleriand on the grounds of being their former King's grandson! I gave him counsel, sometimes, as he advised me well in turn.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Indeed, and wert thou not most singularly counselled in the course of thy reign throughout?  
  
[they both glance at the group by the falls, briefly, and Finrod becomes very stern]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I bestowed my trust on those who proved themselves trustworthy, and authority on those who showed themselves fit to wield it. If they are not the most easy-tempered of Elves, what of it? I know you consider them responsible, like everyone else who didn't turn back with you, and a bad influence -- but you really don't grasp what things were like in the Old Country, how much work there was to be done, and how little ready resources to do it with--  
  
[leaning forward, intense]  
  
\--and especially what  
the Crossing was like. I needed every trustworthy and willing soul I could get. I used my siblings' help when I could -- but they had their own domains to administer and Work to do, and I couldn't go yanking them off that whenever I needed something looked into. And I never did figure out how to be in three places at once. Nor had I your option, of delegating or diverting delicate matters of negotiation and personal conflict to my partner and co-ruler. So I'll thank you, Father, not to speak slightingly of those friends who did stay loyal to me.  
  
[Finarfin looks down, not saying anything in his own defense]  
  

Amarie: [taut]  
    
They are rebels, notwithstanding.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes. We are.  
  
[she looks away, fiddling with her sash, and he does not pursue the matter -- instead he turns to his elders with an air of innocent curiosity:]  
  
So -- were you engaging in yet another instance of sibling rivalry with us, or was it purely coincidental that we've got the largest families of anyone in Valinor, at least as things stood when we left?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thy query is past comprehending, child.  
  

Finrod: [to his father]  
    
Of course it could simply be that Grandfather wanted a lot of kids, and you all simply took it for granted as something to strive for, internalizing it without realizing it, and nothing deliberate about it, but\--  
  
[to his aunt]  
  
When my cousins and I were  
\-- not friends, as it after proved, but friendly \-- we started wondering, after Cur pointed out the respective ages and we did up a comparison table, and they remarked on how exceptionally pleased you two were when the twins were born, as if something had been definitively settled, that you'd gotten so far ahead that no one else could catch up.  
  
[she gives him a very frosty Look]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thine other uncle hath also more children than most commonly is custom.  
  

Finrod: [blithely]  
    
We know. I've asked him, but he just ignores the question.  
  
[shrugs]  
  
I suppose it could just be coincidence, but there does seem to be something in the fact that there do seem to be these batches of cousins all right around the same time in our House.  
  

Nerdanel: [quelling]  
    
Nay, is it yet more of yon quaint fashion of speech from the Old Country? for surely thou dost not mean to speak of people as were loaves, else cakes--?  
  

Finarfin: [even more quelling]  
    
Finrod -- what, deemst thou, thy mother should say unto such malapert inquiring?  
  

Finrod: [shrugs]  
    
I've no idea. That's why I'm asking, because I haven't any way of knowing whether it's the truth, and since she isn't here and you two are, I'm asking you instead.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thy manners improvéd not at all in the Old Country.  
  

Finrod: [cheerful]  
    
I must have lost them back there, too.  
  
[silence]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Majesty, it is not gracious to make light of the matter of unhousing -- not all of us have had the same leisure to grow accustomed to the business, and such jests are most distressing.  
  
[the living Elves look relieved that another shade has raised the issue where they might not.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Sorry. I meant my wits, as it happens. I hear so many witty remarks made concerning my lack of sanity on, for lack of better phrasing, a daily basis, that it seemed the obvious comparison to me.  
  
[cheerful]  
  
So -- were you all having some sort of an artistic competition, then? [the camera leaves them and moves to focus on the chess-lessons, where the Teler Maid is playing against the Captain, who is presently glaring at Beren, who is kneeling down next to the board watching]  
  

Captain:  
    
Please don't tell me what I should be doing. --Even if you're right. And nobody go quoting stupid sayings about things coming and going around, either.  
  

Teler Maid: [her brows narrowing as she stares at the board]  
    
I do not care much for this game.  
  
[the Youngest Ranger is sitting beside her, advising her on moves]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [encouraging]  
    
You're doing quite well, for a beginner, truly.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
That is not my meaning. In this fashion of it, there is no way to win, unless another does die.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, that's . . . sort of what happens, in war. Which this is based on, I'm afraid.  
  

Teler Maid: [shaking her head]  
    
But might it not happen, that from thinking this so like to war, that one might come to think of other Elves--  
  
[looks at Beren]  
  
\--or Men -- as but such small pieces to be set here and there, and in harm's way, and so to be knocked aside without regret, so that the purpose of winning be attained?  
  
[dramatically she flips one of the pawns over with a snap of her fingers to reinforce the point, as if shooting a very large marble]  
  

Captain: [blinking]  
    
Erm -- I don't see how. It's but a game, after all.  
  

First Guard: [disturbed but definite about his answer]  
    
No, I'm -- sure, it -- isn't possible that any of us should come to such a point, where the loss of life meant nothing whatsoever \-- that would be unthinkable, Maiwe. There would be no difference between us and the Enemy's minions at that point.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You were not killed by your own folk.  
  

Captain:  
    
Not directly.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
And does that not but go to show my sayings' truth, that you were set aside without regret by others, that did not care enough to care of your deaths as if they were their own?!  
  

Captain: [patient]  
    
There was a Curse invoked, Curlew, and a great deal of other currents involved in that turn of affairs.  
  
[at his words she tosses her head and looks over at the Steward]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
And what do you say, my learnéd lord? Think you my notion's but folly, as well?  
  
[the Captain winces at her words; the Steward does not answer at once, but instantly stops the strings, making it clear that he's paying attention and thinking about it first]  
  

Steward: [carefully]  
    
It is true that of those who rebelled against our lord, were many who favoured the board as a means of honing skills of strategy, beyond mere diversion; but at the same time it is no less true that the game was unknown, to those who first committed the sacrilege of murder against our people.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
That is two answers -- which is to say, none at all!  
  

Steward: [nods]  
    
Indeed, in former days I should have said at once -- Absurd, to think that a mere pastime might change the reasoning mind, a mere thing that thought employs itself about, as though the wax might shape the burin that sculpts it equally, though it be soft and bronze or agate hard. But now upon reflection it comes to me that it is true, that what is carved does indeed chafe and shape the tool that works it, for its respective hardness and softness thereof, and perhaps in like fashion the mind should be affected, pendant upon the self's own powers and determination. For does not thought, which shapes speech, and gives birth to the words that the tongue utters, hold precedence and rule over the fleeting sound? And yet --  
  
[absent-mindedly running his hand around the forepillar of the harp]  
  
\--having seen how varied speech may be, and how alike, and how unlike, are the ways and manners of thinking that each has that employs a different one, I wonder -- rather, judge it so -- that speech does truly shape the mind that makes it, even as the different densities of stones, and woods, and metals, do change the sculptor's very hand, both in pattern of gesture and by increase of strength. Yet this is but analogy, of course, and nothing definite.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You still have not said yea or nay, but yea and nay.  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
Isn't that an Elvish thing? I thought it came from being Eldar.  
  

Steward:  
    
Were I not fearful of giving offense, I should say that it comes of wisdom, which often accompanies years but does not inevitably follow upon them, but which may by the course of time and wide experience allow to overlook a great many things, as from the topmost branches of the tallest trees, and thus reveal that things in truth be other than at first presumed while in their midst, as a distance might be less great than seemed, or greater, or things thought far apart lie close beside, and only such slow and laborious ascent to such a height may grant the view, and also must require as well the courage to look so far and through so lofty a gap.   
  
[raising an eyebrow]  
  
\--Or else, at other times, it comes but of mental sloth, that does not care to take the trouble to think on it, or possibly of simple ignorance, that is too proud to grant it.  
  
[his ex gives him a wary look, and then an even more uncertain one to their companions, who are chuckling over this . . . answer]  
  

Soldier:  
    
How did you win, sir? Against His Majesty the High King?  
  

Captain:  
    
I just assumed you cheated with the Sight.  
  
[nods from several of the Ten]  
  

Steward:  
    
No, I -- merely played kingstone, where he was playing chess proper.   
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
How could you do that?  
  

Steward:  
    
I took the offensive to his side, by putting my king into play, and setting all my pieces in guard around as a doubled nernehta. At first he was so thrown by the unprecedent and seeming-madness of such a hazardous ploy, that he could not mount an effective defense -- and then as certain similarities to unpleasant past events became increasingly manifest, aided by the coincidence that hehad drawn black, His Majesty's uncle became increasingly, as you would say, rattled. I nearly felt badly at putting him in check with my remaining knight. But I doubt the stratagem would work again, now that he has had time to study it.  
  

Beren: [solemnly]  
    
I can see where making him play Morgoth to your Fingolfin might make him a tad upset and careless.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But it is little like to Arda, after all's done, no matter how like your War -- for when one battle's ended, you but lay the pieces down for yet another.  
  
[she gives them a slightly uncertain, challenging look, receiving only affirmation in return: only the Steward disagrees at all]  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
It is not much like the world Outside -- but it is very like to here.  
  
[he returns to playing, still quietly; beyond, the Royal Guard sent on errand to Fingolfin returns, and approaching the hill, comes up quietly and kneels down discreetly behind his King, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.]  
  

Third Guard: [aside to Finrod, in a rather frustrated tone]  
    
Sir, your uncle's being gloomy over things again and wants you to go talk to him yourself. I did tell him you were busy with your father, but he's not in the mood to listen.  
  
[he notices the surprised expressions of the living Eldar and gives Finrod a worried look]  
  

Finrod: [very amused]  
    
You're scandalizing my family with our informality.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Oh.  
  
[bites his lip, straightening as he kneels, and begins  
again -- very formal tone]  
  
\--Sire, the High King would have your Majesty attend upon his presence most presently, and requests that His Majesty the King excuse your Majesty's absence for the whiles.   
  
[spoiling it]  
  
How's that, Sir?  
  

Finrod: [approving nod]  
    
Good enough.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
What do you want me to tell him next?  
  

Finrod: [cool glint]  
    
Nothing. He'll be getting my response shortly, and regretting this game. He should know by now that I play to win.  
  
[snorts]  
  
\--On the other hand, he won't be able to complain about being bored.  
  
[to the Guard]  
  
\--Thank you.  
  
[his follower nods and makes his departure with rapidity and relief, heading over to the much more relaxed, if still strained, gathering by the waterfall]  
  

Finarfin: [guardedly]  
    
There is ill-will twixt thee and thine uncle?  
  
[Finrod shrugs, shaking his head a little]  
  

Finrod: [a shade wearily]  
    
He's not gotten over the fact that most people here think of him as my uncle, rather than me as the High King's nephew. We try not to make an issue of it; but the fact of the matter is, I held more territory, and more followers, than all the rest of our family combined. --For all the good it did me.   
  
[Finarfin restrains a grimace]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
But tell me, was that not ever truth? Surely thy father's elder was not so blind to see it not?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes, but it didn't matter to him then, because he never paid much attention to anything that happened in the south. All his concentration was fixed on Thangorodrim, and everything else was important only in so far as it related to the Leaguer. I might have ruled most of Beleriand, but it never registered saving insofar as it meant that I could guarantee deliveries of weapons and wine and gemstones and seafood and safe passage for all of that and his messengers and troops to the siege.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Whence, then, this sudden and much-belated cognition of such state as did obtain o'er all for nigh well all this Age?  
  

Finrod: [wry]  
    
Because -- an awful lot of them are here. And yes, technically we are all of us subject to him -- my people, including my brothers and their people as well, along with the Feanorian dead -- but that doesn't change the fact that an awful lot of them, including occasionally my brothers and some of the Feanorians, come to me first for advice. Which -- as I've tried to tell him -- has some little thing to do with the fact that he's spent much of the past decade moping about and playing endless rounds of chess with whomever he can conscript into it.  
  
[increasingly exasperated]  
  
I mean -- Grinding Ice! -- what difference does it make any more? First of all, it's completely in the past; secondly, as you said, Aunt 'Danel, nothing really has changed except that he's been forced to notice it. I don't understand why he's so touchy about it now. When I was alive my kingdom came close to encircling Elu's, and he never gave me such a hard time as Uncle Fingolfin is giving me now. Not even when he threw us out.   
  

Ambassador:  
    
Yes, but you freely gave him the one thing he did desire, you and your siblings and your following -- respect.   
  

Finrod:  
    
I--  
  
[stops, fights back a grin]  
  
I give my father's brothers all the respect they are due. No less than I gave my grandfather's brother.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
And thus His Majesty could but ever give his royal nephew hearing, whether the words were much to his liking or little, nor long stay angry with you, Sire.  
  
[Finrod sighs deeply]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Too many Kings . . . !  
  

Finarfin: [very measured and slightly-mocking tone]  
  
    
So, my son, -- art thou King, or not? For first thou dost deny it, and yet thy folk aver it, and thou dost act in such wise ever amidst all, and now, in guardless speech thou eke averrest. Canst thou yet, in full cognizance, and all consideration of these things, deny me thus once more?  
  
[they match stares for a long, intense moment, far too much between them to be said otherwise, and then Finrod sighs, yielding, but not weakening:]  
  

Finrod: [equally-measured, and very proudly]  
    
For so long as my people do hold me such, for so long as any of them stand in need of my protection, and for so long as we abide within these Halls -- I shall be their true lord, as they are true beyond all my deserving, for how can I choose other?  
  

Finarfin: [coolly]  
    
I had deemed no less. --Glad am I in truth to find it so.  
  
[Finrod is not sure what to make of his father's words; Amarie, who has up till now been very quiet and taut, now addresses him,  
in an edged, brittle tone.]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Thou -- thou dost not such things, in truth? To strike, with the sword's keenness, thy fellow shades?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not usually.  
  
[brief pause]  
  
Usually, -- worse.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Howso?  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
D-- Fire-breathing serpent-monsters. Molten rivers. --Things out of their worst nightmares to haunt them.  
  

Amarie: [sharp]  
    
Then how mayest hold thyself superior to these thy -- foes?  
  

Finrod: [coolly]  
    
They ravaged Swanhaven. They haven't regretted it. Now I harry them. --Not unprovoked, I assure you.  
  
[she does not respond, but only stares at him with a strange intensity; he gives his living relatives a defiant look. In the background, the Feanorian contingent returns, strengthened by the addition of a few more bolder souls]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
My nephew, didst not assure that yon unquiet dead should ne'er dare to return and trouble ye?  
  
[looking around, he grimaces at her dry words]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Unwarranted optimism -- ever our bane.  
  
[sighing, he gets up and goes over to the incipient conflagration, shaking his head wearily at it all. With unspoken accord, the other four rise and follow to see what happens. The confronted parties are in much the same arrangement as before, with Beren and Huan together remaining reluctantly by the falls, while the two followings face off without yet coming to blows.]  
  
What seems to be the trouble, gentles?  
  

Formenos: [airily]  
    
What trouble would you have, sir?  
  

Finrod:  
    
None whatsoever, by my wish. But I fear you bring me some.  
  

Formenos:  
    
No, you and yours brought it on yourselves. Your servant owes my friend a debt of pain, and we are here to see it paid.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You know what my decision on that was -- that judment should be left up to them that rightfully judge here, and I bid you go and make your grievance known to them. Have you not done so?  
  

Aglon:  
    
Hah -- as if they'd truly judge honestly between you and yours, and us! You know what the truth of that is, I'll warrant.  
  

Finrod:  
    
As I know the truth of what I say -- that I know not what judgment the Doomsman would pronounce, but that it be just.  
  

Steward:  
    
My lord, they will not give you peace, until I yield. Let me--  
  

Finrod:  
    
No.  
  

Steward:  
    
For the common good, and Beren's--  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--No. I do not betray my own.  
  
[the Steward bows his head in obedience, though not relieved by the refusal]  
  

Formenos:  
    
So quickly you yield, Enedrion. I hardly recognize you these days -- I suppose you must have been at some pains to blend in over the years with House Finarfin's "meekness," as I believe you used to call it over dinner at Gatherings in the old Day, considering how much you said it wore upon you.  
  
[he seems somewhat disappointed and surprised that the Ten express no surprise nor dismay whatsoever at this revelation]  
  

Aglon: [frowning thoughtfully]  
    
No, it's the other way 'round, I think: he found his proper level with these, who almost instantly forgot their Noldor heritage -- such as it was -- and "naturalized," I think they put it, when it's plants. None quite as much as the little sister -- but you'd swear they were all Dark-elves themselves, the way they've been running and hiding from trouble, these last few years. Of course, if he'd been truly High-elven, at heart, and not just from birth, he'd not have held back and gotten caught up with these stragglers back in the initial stages of the Departure.  
  
[the Steward does not respond, though his expression reveals the strain -- Finarfin gives him a surprised look]  
  

Finarfin: [darkly]  
    
Is this ever their way and fashion of words unto ye?  
  
[quick nod]  
  
Yet thou dost not strike him down for such form of insolence?  
  

Steward:  
    
Truly, my lord, I -- I seldom, if ever, permit my anger to rule my deeds. --That \-- was a most uncommon exception.  
  

Captain: [apologetic]  
    
I usually take care of any necessary violence, Sir.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye, yet -- he derideth not only ye, but my son the same, in his words to thee.  
  
[another quick nod]  
  

Captain:  
    
That's my jurisdiction as well.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I aver thy former actions seem less worthy of reprehensions -- the both of ye.  
  
[to the Feanorian lords]  
  
Wherefore ye seek naught but to feed this malice that doth overgrow thee like unto mossy greens o'ersliming rocks that do stand in water, deem ye not that it shall be the more fitting employ of spirit and strength to seek an end, or some form of speech or form of service that shall give solace to thine injured mood, young shade, that doth not give to other injury? Nor that it befits thee better, that art his elder both in earthly years alike in death, to urge him peace, belike discovering of thine own wisdom such appeasement even, that shall be acceptable to all who now contend?  
  

Formenos: [shaking his head]  
    
No one can stop you from talking, I suppose -- but I can't imagine what you think you'll accomplish, Finarfin old chap. Your skills as a peacemaker and a leader haven't exactly been shining successes, what? After all, you couldn't even keep your own children in line --though I'm not sure whether that says more about your parenting skills than your -- ahem -- "leadership abilities," eh? Not like your brother at all . . .  
  
[he trails off, raising his eyebrow challengingly -- Finarfin only gives him a level Look, matching him stare for stare, while to the side Finrod's jaw hardens, though he doesn't say anything]  
  

Amarie: [outraged]  
    
He is King of the Noldor, by right of descent that hath been confirméd full by Taniquetil's Powers -- and by desert, thou rebel, thou thief!  
  

Aglon: [bored tone, not even looking at her]  
    
Go back to your Valmar birdcage and ring your bells, Firstling.  
  

Amarie: [to Finrod]  
    
\--And dost thou stand there, my lord, and hear, and do naught?  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
What do you want me to do, exactly? I thought you were against violence.  
  

Amarie:  
    
It is thine own father he mocketh, nor I alone!  
  

Finrod: [bleakly]  
    
I can tell him to be quiet, but you've seen how much good that does. If I hit him, it's going to escalate, which is what I'm trying to prevent. A bit counter-productive, wouldn't you say?  
  
[she snorts angrily; the Feanorians look on with malicious glee]  
  
After all, it's hardly fair of you to condemn Edrahil for losing his temper at the same sort of thing, and then goad me into it, -- unless you're actually trying to get me to do something to further justify your bad opinions of me--  
  

Amarie: [loudly interrupting him]  
    
Hold\--  
  
[she grits her teeth as if biting down on any further imprecations, looking as coolly unaffected as she can, but there are tears in her eyes]  
  

Aglon: [affecting innocence, gesturing back and forth]  
    
So -- are you two married, or not? I can never get a straight answer about that, and my Lords weren't quite sure either.  
  
[to Amarie first]  
  
It's just as well, considering, that you stayed behind, Firstling -- you do know he was notorious for running off and not finishing things properly before getting distracted with something new. Saved yourself no end of grief, I'm sure--  
  
[to Finrod]  
  
\--It's hardly surprising that nobody in Nargothrond followed you, when you couldn't even convince your own lady to do the same! Of course, that's not really surprising either, considering you never stayed there long enough to unpack your bags. --I wonder if they've even missed you yet?   
  
[without looking around Finrod flings out his arm, blocking the Captain from moving forward; Amarie is white with fury]  
  

Warrior:  
    
We finished the defenses of Barad Nimras, didn't we? And th--  
  

Formenos: [cutting him off]   
    
\--Yes, and from what I've heard, that was a signally pointless waste of resources, wasn't it? They didn't strike there, after all.  
  

Ranger:  
    
At least we didn't just hang about on a perpetual shooting vacation enjoying ourselves at other people's expense!  
  
[the Feanorian lords just smile, the baiting succeeding quite well]  
  

Finrod: [impassive]  
    
Have you anything of substance to impart, milords?  
  

Nerdanel: [sternly chiding]  
    
Ye should stand ashamed, that have not learned aught of mercy else of wisdom for the workings of Doom.  
  
[they don't even look at her, although a few of their following do.]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
They are Kinslayers, noble lady, and one expects nothing else of them, if one is wise.  
  
[the Seneschal and Warden give him a glance and then ignore him, as unworthy of attention, while Nerdanel draws herself up to deliver another rebuke.  
  

Steward: [urgent]  
    
Do not waste your time and trouble, please -- it will only incur you needless grief, and insult.  
  
[she gives him a a quick approving glance, and continues to rake those who formerly owed her fealty as well with an adamantine glare. Some of them display signs of clear discomfort, despite their affectation of her non-existence.]  
  

Finrod: [disgusted exasperation]  
    
What do you want? I'm not about to let you hurt any of my people, and I'm not going to allow you to start a melee in here. Now you have the choice of letting it stop, now, quietly, and taking it up with the Powers that are here, as I advised -- or of pressing it to open conflict. We are not, --have not \-- and will not be the initiators of aggression. We do our best to keep the peace here, even in the face of your determination to break it.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Oh, such pretty, pretty words! What a pity they aren't true. --Or have you forgotten how your vassal there ran me through when I had done nothing to him?  
  
[the Steward lowers his head, but does not turn away or retreat; Finrod is unmoved by the retort, as are the rest of his friends.]  
  

Captain:  
    
You hit the Sea-Mew.  
  

Aglon: [blank]  
    
Who?  
  

Teler Maid: [loudly -- very loudly]  
    
Me!!!  
  
[he glances over, startled, and registers her presence]  
  

Aglon: [exasperated, to Finrod]  
    
I did no such thing. I merely moved her aside as she was obstructing me -- all right, perhaps a little too much force, but nothing to hurt her, really.  
  
[she snorts angrily, giving him a glare to which he is quite oblivious]  
  

Finrod: [leadingly]  
    
Obstructing you -- and from what?  
  

Aglon:  
    
? ? ?  
  
[Finrod sighs, and looks at the Youngest Ranger]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [clearly, if with reluctant expression]  
    
From trying to strike me, gentles.  
  

Aglon:  
    
\--Who had struck me without warning and most unsportsmanlike -- with not even a proper weapon!  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--And, as I understand it, to forestall you from harming the Lord of Dorthonion. --A Man unarmed, crippled, occupied in peaceful pursuits, and offering you no cause for violence. Not to mention a valiant enemy of our common Enemy.  
  
[pause, in which everyone looks over at Beren where he is standing unhappily holding onto Huan's neck]  
  

Aglon: [sullen]  
    
He provoked me.  
  
[derisive noises and loud jeers from the Ten & Huan -- Finrod gestures them quiet]  
  

Finrod: [pleasantly]  
    
Truthfully? I admit that Beren's social skills are not always employed, but tell me -- who spoke first?  
  
[silence]  
  

Formenos: [patronizingly]  
    
Finarfinion, you can't really expect us to take such insolence from one of these yearsick Followers, behaving as though he were one of us, our equal -- nay, our better -- and not a thief, come of a breed of thieves, overrunning and taking all that's ours by right.  
  

Aglon: [nodding]  
    
Indeed -- if he'd shown me respect, as would be appropriate for someone who owed everything to our sacrifices in the Leaguer, I'd not have lost my temper with your Man servant there. Instead he behaved with less civility than the rest of your people usually do -- which I admit is a difficult thing to manage!  
  
[simultaneously]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Don't listen to them--  
    
Ranger:  
    
It isn't true, Beren, don't pay attention.  
  

Amarie: [amazed]  
    
Still dost hold fast to this thy jealousy, that art not even earth enough to hold to aught of earth, but like a shadow hast but swept 'cross the lands, until thy time of Doom hath swallowed thee as the night ever swalloweth all such transitory shadows? Wilt thou ever grasp at that which thou canst not bear off, even as thy true Master doth ever seek to clutch all within's own ever-increasing hunger?  
  

Teler Maid: [disdainful]  
    
We might have preferred the Twilight -- but only to better see the holy Stars, and not to hide our deeds!  
  

Ambassador: [nodding]  
    
Indeed, gentle maiden, they are but Orcs that can endure the Sun, as your words imply -- for so they have most clearly shown themselves to be.  
  

Formenos:  
    
Small your sort's gratitude ever was, but it seems to have vanished altogether, Dark-elf.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
What gratitude is owed, for a deed unintended, sir? You did not have any thought of our welfare when you assaulted Morgoth, nor beleaguered him -- it was but a consequence, and quite as fortunate for your interests as for those whose Beleriand rightly was!  
  
[the Lord Seneschal ignores him]  
  

Aglon: [caustic, to Finrod]  
    
I want satisfaction, Your Majesty.  
  

Finrod: [looking at him as though he were a beetle]  
    
And I want you and your people out of here, or at least quiet, if you insist upon staying.  
  

Aglon:  
    
And that's unfortunate, since you can't enforce your will here any more than you could in Nargothrond.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I don't recommend you test that premise.  
  

Aglon: [smiling a knowing smile]  
    
No, you wouldn't -- since the Powers won't let you actually do anything any more. And, of course, like a dutiful little slave you promised to obey them -- sorry, child, not thrall.  
  

Finrod: [patiently]  
    
I gave my word because the Weaver was so upset, and it was a small thing for me, to give her peace of mind.  
  

Aglon:  
    
Oh, that's right -- you're just too nice for your own good. No wonder you lost every battle and contest you engaged in -- but considering you've but a quarter Noldor blood, it's perhaps more impressive that you ventured so far from home and even made the effort -- some sort of pity prize in order, I should say!  
  

Finrod: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
The roads might have been different -- but haven't they led us both to the same prophesied place?  
  

Aglon:  
    
. . .  
  

Formenos: [graciously, to his confederate]  
    
At least your Doom meant something, saving our kinsfolk in the Battle of Sudden Flame.  
  
[Finarfin moves forward -- remembers -- checks, and turns to the Captain]  
  

Finarfin: [low and fierce]  
    
Smite him, friend -- and my blessing for it..  
  

Captain: [regretful]  
    
Gladly, my lord -- were I allowed.  
  

Amarie:  
    
Is't within chance's bounds, that any should have seen yon Doom unfold, borne witness to all its direst workings, and seen the truth of't borne out, that all such unblessed efforts end in misery and ruin -- and yet offend thus blasphemously, and most unsorrowing yet mock at it!?!  
  

Formenos: [to Aglon and his supporters]  
    
It's amazing how those who have caged themselves will continue to insist they're free, and better off for being slaves, than those who have escaped. No prisons like those of the mind, don't you agree? We might be held here against our will -- but at least we have our own free wills!  
  
[as his friends smilingly agree, a strange woman's voice echoes loudly through the Hall:]  
  
\--Whenever are you going to learn \-- Father?  
  
[all turn to look at the new arrival, who is standing just at the edge of the dispute -- on the inner side of the Hall; clearly she didn't just come in through the door. Her appearance is striking: it's impossible to tell which Kindred this shade belongs to (hard even to tell what gender) as the disorder of her hair and ragged mismatch of her clothing makes Beren look well-groomed, and her expression makes Luthien at her most frazzled seem calm and sane. She stalks forward, stiff and awkward, as though not used to people, or to welcome, and everyone else draws back a little from this hollow-eyed, ferocious-looking madwoman -- with the notable exception of Finrod's following. Ideally Natasha McElhone from Ronin would portray her.]  
  
I never thought to hear myself say this, but -- I am ashamed that I am of any connection to you all.  
  
[her voice is harsh, and her way of talking sharp and erratic like her movements. The Feanorians stare at her, stunned, most of them without recognition -- the Seneschal of Formenos stares at her in shock, completely speechless]  
  
Not a word? After having been so glib in your own defense for so long!  
  
[she folds her arms, wound up taut as a crossbow, staring at those whose primary self-identification is as Noldor, and waits for someone to respond, smiling without humor at their leader.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Who are you?  
  

Ex-Thrall: [ironically]  
    
One of those who consented, who stood by while you were killed. By my ill-fortune I was not drowned in the storm, the ship I rode on made the dark voyage to Losgar, and I lived to earn my Doom honestly.  
  
[Beren shoulders through and comes around to face her, Huan at his side guarding him]  
  

Beren: [troubled]  
    
But how come you're here?  
  

Ex-Thrall: [genuine surprise]  
    
You recall me?  
  

Beren:  
    
Of course I remember you. You gave me half your scarf.  
  
[someone in the crowd makes a noise, quickly cut off, and he looks up. Earnestly:]  
  
Don't laugh. From someone who hasn't got much, that's a kingly gift.  
  
[to the Ex-Thrall again]  
  
Didn't you go home? --I didn't know you could talk.  
  

Ex-Thrall: [bitter laugh]  
    
What was there for me to say? My deeds were sufficient. I went to the City.  
  
[she shakes her head]  
  
Something went to the City, at least, and ate and bathed and walked in rooms that did not stink of decay and stared at every light like a witless moth. Until Sun-return, when there was no gift-singing there or joy, nor any way to hide from the truth: that I too, was an empty shell and nothing more, and that there would never be light again for any of us under that stone -- and I lay down upon my couch, and left.  
  
[he tries to put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs off any attempt at comfort]  
  
I did not speak to any here until I heard your name, and knew that someone else that might comprehend what I might say was here, and came forth from the shadows to ask \-- and stayed to tell instead.  
  
[she flashes a glance over towards the Steward, who bows slightly in her direction, his expression lightening a little, though still grim and stressed]  
  
I have found no other company here one-half so congenial, though 'tis thought I am aloof and care not for any.  
  

Captain: [easily]  
    
No, -- I think most of us know you're severely agoraphobic and would be present more if you could manage it.  
  
[She closes her eyes and smiles a faint, brief, genuine smile, while some of the Ten look a little penitent. Emphatic:]  
  
\--You don't have to talk about it.  
  
[at once she lifts her head again, defiantly, shaking her head. The Seneschal of Formenos takes a step closer to her, and opens his mouth to say something -- but she gives a terrible scream of rage and pain, drowning him out]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
Do not say it! I have no name! She that had that name died long ago -- would you hear how? -- and only I am left. --Kinslayer. Murderer. Bloodguilty coward. --Yes! Murderer thrice over, and more.  
  

Formenos: [in helpless protest, shaking his head over and over]  
    
No -- you were never a warrior--  
  

Ex-Thrall: [mocking]  
    
I never wielded a sword. --I did not need to. Others always killed for me. First you -- all of you -- and then the servants of my Master, so that I never might stain my hands with death -- only my heart!  
  

Aglon:  
    
But you got away safely -- we died to guard the evacuation--  
  
[he is just as horrorstricken as his friend]  
  

Ex-Thrall: [matter-of-fact]  
    
No. There were wounded who were unable to continue; I was endeavoring to heal them enough to carry on, when we were overtaken.  
  
[looking at her father]  
  
After you were killed, as the War crept on, I vowed to honor you by saving as many of our folk as might be from the fighting, and became a Healer, as it's done in the Old Country -- but I went beyond, and rode forth with the companies along the Northern Front, as very few other maids dared, or dared trouble their kindred's hearts by daring to do. --But was I not your daughter?  
  
[gesturing emphatically]  
  
How could I be any  
less brave, nor any less concerned, than you who died in effort to end the War before it truly began? --I never did believe that our lord had gone to the parley in anything but good faith, because I'd have had to think that of you, too. Not while I was alive.  
  
[he opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything, and she keeps going, addressing them all equally:]  
  
When the War broke out and broke our lines, and all the rest of it, and those of us who survived the initial assault on Aglon knew it wasn't possible to hold it, and we thought to pull back to Himlad and join our forces with the garrison there, and keep that, at least, firm against the invaders -- but you know all about that, you've argued it over for a decade now. But it wasn't possible, instead we were joined by a cavalcade from Himlad, where the Enemy had got round, and pushed past round Himring through the March as well, so that our lords were forced to lead us west with Prince Orodreth's company, down the Old Road where even orcs would not dare to follow, using their combined powers to keep off the Gloomweaver's spawn. But I never got so far.  
  
[looking at the Warden of Aglon]  
  
Your younger brother was badly wounded, by an axe-cut. --And others, as well, but -- you understand.  
  

Aglon: [anguished]  
    
He -- he's not a slave now too--?  
  
[she smiles, a sinister, sinister smile, shaking her head]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
No. I'll get to that. I stayed back, with some others, trying with all our might and main to patch our friends -- and loved ones -- sufficiently for them to keep on, but in vain. The smokes confused us, and we ended up captives, like so many others, harried back across the lands we had once held as ours, that now were reclaimed by their true Master. Two years I served in hell, two years -- but Time isn't the same there, as it wasn't the same here, after the Sun came.  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
It's always dark, there, always the same, and her seasons don't bring renewal or strength or plenty or peace by turns. Two years I struggled to stay alive, to avoid the notice, and the lash, of his fell Commanders, and their underlings -- and to stay others, wielding my skills in the domain of Death, for those burnt or broken in machinery, and doing it in defiance, though I knew it was tolerated as a useful thing, by our Lord and His people. Every little was an unimaginable gain, in that place that is Him, where the very air corrodes the lungs that breathe it, and the walls throb with His anger when you fall against them.   
  

Formenos:  
    
But you're free now -- it's over--  
  

Ex-Thrall: [blunt]  
    
\--Never. I left there, in the company of many other slaves, for the south, a group given, selected by what miserable fate I do not know, to the victorious Commander who had just overthrown one of the last few bastions of Elvish resistance, and was working on consolidating the entire north from the Pass to the River. He needed workers to arm his troops, and serve them, and to repair the damages done to the fortress in its taking. And so we came to Tol Sirion, who had not thought ever to leave Angband again  
.  
[she gives Finrod a significant Look]  
  
It was . . . different there. For one, it was more depressing: Angband might be built in part by Eldar hands, but not originally, and nothing of its design says so. For another, there's no such thing as anonymity: you can't hide amid the herd, be just another number, keeping your self to yourself, so long as you keep your head down and stay lucky, in a place that small. I found that out very shortly, when I was summoned -- well, that's technically true, though most likely not what you'd first think of, for the word "summoned" -- to the presence of our new Doomsman, the Necromancer, from whom it was whispered that not even death might set one free, though we Light-elves, and most lately captured, could hardly credit such superstition.  
  

Ranger: [automatically starting to correct]  
    
It wasn't--  
  
[but is interrupted himself by the Youngest Ranger -- his junior in age, but superior in rank, silences him with a hand over his mouth and a Look; the Noldorin warrior is apologetic and shamefaced, but the Feanorian lady doesn't seem to notice the disturbance]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
The dread Lord of that Island gave me to understand that he understood very well, that there were many among the thralls who were not equal to their set tasks, whose strength had failed, or was failing, and who were covered for by their friends and dearest ones. I denied it; he laughed. "You heal them," he scoffed, "you know it even better than I. So long as you get them back to work, it's all the better for my purposes. But when it comes to feeding useless drones -- no more, I say. What I want, is for you to take note of such, and inform me who is incapable, as you find them so."  
  
[she looks at the lawful Eldar grouped together]  
  
Not even pretense, now, when setting Elf against Elf -- raw and unvarnished, his mastering of treason. I said nothing -- he mistook me. Or so I thought. "In return for your services, I can assure you of far better treatment, not only for yourself, but for those you -- minister to," he pledged, offering improved medical care as the payback -- for the survivors, that is.  
  
[shrugging]  
  
It made sense, when he explained it: his staff had to eat, not just the Orcs and the Wargs, but also his couriers as well. They needed fresh blood, but it was always risky for them to hunt, the chance of being caught on the ground, and by culling -- his word -- the slaves for those who were going to depart soon anyway, this meant less danger of messenger, and message, being lost; and of course the rest of the body would be eaten by his other minions, if it were not too wasted. A proposition triply beneficial -- to him, to me, and to the majority of us. And I refused.  
  
[she smiles grimly, and pauses]  
  

Formenos:  
    
You've not been here eight years\--?!  
  

Ex-Thrall: [impatient]  
    
Haven't you been paying attention? No, he had me tossed in a closet for a week -- I think it was a week, at least -- not wide enough to lie down in or high enough to stand in, pitch dark -- it had been a chimney-breast once, but was blocked off for more useful purposes; he didn't trouble much with keeping a cheerful atmosphere going throughout the place. But I held fast, and did not yield in the least, not even in imagining -- I sang against him, songs of Valinor, until physically unable, and still I thought resistance at him, and finally they hauled me out of there and brought me into the Terrible One's presence. And then, I thought I'd won -- that either he'd send me back to my labours, or harder ones, or kill me then and there. No such luck.  
  
[she looks sidelong at the Ten through veiled lashes, her expression more sneering than ever]  
  

Finrod: [very serious]  
    
Is this going to do you any good?  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
What does that matter?  
  
[to her father]  
  
Oh, but I was defiant, I was strong -- I hadn't let them break me, and I would not be broken. No matter what. And he didn't say anything, not a word, just smiled at me, while I stood there shaking from hunger and cramped muscles, weeping in the torchlight, and telling myself, and him, in my mind that it was purely physical reaction, and meaningless, and believed it. Some of his minions carried in a block of iron, by the rings set in its sides -- it was huge, the size of a wall-stone, too massive to be moved by any one's strength, not even one of us. I stared at it, trying to think what new torture it could be for -- I couldn't see any moving parts, except for the circular handles -- but I didn't show them my fear. I would not. And then they chained me to one of the rings, and I laughed inside to think that all this terror had been for but another beating -- that there was nothings o effective as the fearful mind for defeating itself, and all that was needed was true Eldar spirit, to withstand the vaunted Power of the Terrible One. I actually pitied the Grey Kindred at that moment, for all their terror of him and his kind, poor weaklings without the resistance of our people.  
  
[she gives a quick glance towards the Youngest Ranger]  
  
I was such a fool.  
  
[to the Lord Warden of Aglon]  
  
\--I told you there was more to your brother's story. They dragged him in -- and what a reunion that was, when I hadn't known he was there -- or even still alive -- or he the same of me. His defiance, and challenges, and brave words in my behalf -- they would have made your heart blaze with pride, I'm sure, as they did mine. It never occurred to us -- to me, at least, and I'm sure to him as well -- that we were nothing new, nothing the Enemy and his followers hadn't seen a hundred times before -- our courage, or ignorance. We were so sure that the Dark was weaker than our love, that nothing could defeat us, even though they killed us -- even though they made hideous sport of us first.  
  
[wearily]  
  
I don't know what Sauron wanted from him. I don't know that he wanted anything, and would have killed him whatever he chose. I've always assumed that \-- that he died simply because of me -- but perhaps that's but my arrogance as well. I don't know, now.  
  
[pulling herself together, in her sarcastic tone again]  
  
So there we were, both cuffed to this block in the middle of the floor, not enough length to the chains to reach across it nor around it and hold hands -- but by leaning over it as far as one could stretch, we managed to touch another way -- I must have looked as frightful and orc-like as he did, but that didn't matter. The soldiers applauded and made all sorts of comments, but we didn't care about that either. There was just us, and the Dark didn't matter. Then -- something growled above us, and we broke apart so fast I split my lip on his teeth -- or mine, couldn't tell -- and tried to get away, crawling back as far as the chains would allow.  
  

Formenos:  
    
Not -- not a Balrog?  
  
[his daughter shakes her head, smiling a little]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
No. A Werewolf. The big silvery one, the captain of his elite guard. Oh yes. You've seen Wolves before, seen his minions out and about, fought them, fled them, killed them -- they're not so terrible, truly, no more than the Orcs, isn't that so? Stronger, swifter, a little more canny, in strange ways, harder to understand -- but not like the Fiery Ones, the commanding demons of our Iron God. Wargs can be answered with a spear, a sword, an arrow or a word on the wind to bear your scent elsewhere or blind them to you --Nothing like Balrogs, right?  
  
[she looks at her former comrades and relatives with a self-mocking sneer, while they avoid her eyes]  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
That depends. On where you are in relation to 'em, and if they know you're there or not.  
  
[she doesn't turn towards him, but the slight lift of her chin acknowledges his words, while she continues to stare at her parent]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
Handcuffed on the floor, waiting for an execution order, looking at those dripping fangs, those glowing eyes -- it was, for me, at least. No fire left, not even embers of that blaze that was so bright -- both of us like grubs, dug up from their roots, writhing in the cold air -- no voice left to speak defiance, nor love, now. This was his place, and his power, and no other song is possible in his presence, far less than our common Master though the Terrible One might be. He strode through my shields as though they were not even there, and I realized that nothing had been hidden from him, all along, and that there is no hope.  
  
[though she does not, others cannot help but glance at the Nargothronders -- who look sorry for her, but not particularly fazed, Finrod least of all, as the former Healer continues:]  
  
"You know what I want," he told me. "If you will not serve me, you are no use to me as you are. Shall I reduce you to your component parts, and make use of them separately?" I was still, and did not answer -- the Wolf breathing down my neck, that should have been warm, but I was in a winter gale, ice all over me. "Which will it be?" he asked my soul again, and smiled at us. "Whose flesh will feed my servants -- yours, or another's?"  
  
[smiling through her teeth:]  
  
I didn't say anything \-- I didn't have to. It was that easy.  
  
[the Lord Warden shakes his head in helpless protest --then looks around suddenly with a wild expression as if he might see his brother here, too]  
  
I hid my face, and didn't watch. While it was still going on -- but mostly over -- they unchained me and let me get dressed again, and I walked out of there, and did not--  
  
[her father interrupts her, involuntarily, with a spastic gesture of his hand]  
  

Formenos:  
    
You\--  
  
[he cannot go on, but she tosses her head scornfully, snorting]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
Of course. You don't feed people to the Wolves with their clothes on.  
  
[lightly]  
  
\--What, you don't laugh? You don't find the idea at all amusing now?  
  
[cold iron]  
  
\--I did not look back. Not then. Not after. Not ever \-- until the dark that we crawled in ripped open and the Night came pouring into our cells, our prison-rooms -- our tombs; and we remembered. We remembered -- things we had never known. Not truly. Not how precious they were, until we lost them -- destroyed them -- threw them away. All that time that I silently handed over my fellow prisoners for destruction, naming them as too weak to work, and telling myself that it was mercy, that they should die sooner, and kinder to be eaten quickly, than slowly by the Dark and the malice of our Master -- lying to myself, even as they thanked me for healing them and caring for them, while I gave them over in my stead, and none of them ever knew \-- I had to do, it for my own survival, and I could not regret it, because if I ever looked back -- I could not go on.  
  
[shaking her head without stopping]  
  
Only -- that High-elven lady whom you knew in Beleriand did not survive. She too died in that hour, eaten just as surely as the other, and what walked away without regret is all that remains.  
  
[with a mocking smile]  
  
Will you call me your jewel, your songbird, your beautiful one now? Will you embrace me and call me your star, your sweeting, your treasure, now, Father?  
  
[she stares at him, daring him to reject her, but hoping against hope that he will not. With a cry of anguish he turns, clutching at his temples, and remains standing hunched over as if mortally wounded, his head bowed and eyes closed. She laughs wildly:]  
  
I knew it -- I knew it! You too cannot bear the thought of me, murderess, Kinslayer, weakling -- thrall\--  
  
[she reaches out her hands to the Lord Warden of Aglon, who is looking at her with an agonized expression, filled with embarrassment as much as horror]  
  
And you, my friend -- all of you that were my friends, whose lives and limbs I saved, those many years of the Leaguer, whose hands held mine in dance and peace, even as for comfort when you lay wounded -- will you disown me too?  
  
[they look away from her in shame, some of them lifting hands in protest, or in appeal for her pity, and she falls on her knees, bent over, weeping, but still defiant and challenging: as the Ten move closer to try to lift her up or console her she flings their hands away from her, and shouts at the Feanorians:]  
  
\--Only these -- who alone have the right to scorn me, of all you ghosts and vainglorious shadows, who faced the test and did not fail it -- only they've not fled from me in horror! O robbers, brigands, thieves who struck down the helpless when they tried to resist us -- and yet even you have not fallen so low that you don't see the poisoned aura about me, and shrink from it--!  
  
[she starts rocking back and forth, her arms clenched around her chest, trying not to cry out loud, gasping]  



	46. Scene IV.xix - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

  

Youngest Ranger: [very seriously]  
    
I don't think it's that -- I think it's that you're crazy.   
  
[she gives a hoarse bark of surprised laughter, but he goes on in the same way:]  
  
That's what scares them. There's others have done worse things, you know. Or at least -- more of them. But they're not so plainly daft, as you.  
  
[pause -- she chuckles through her tears]  
  
\--Or else they're worse, that they don't see that they should be.   
  
[the Ex-Thrall pulls herself together and looks up at the onlookers around her, first her own kin and people, and then at the watching faithful, living and dead.]  
  

Ex-Thrall: [defiantly]  
    
What would you say to me, Finarfin son of Indis? That I should have turned back with you at Araman?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I am King of the Noldor now--  
  
[meaningful tone]  
  
\--eke of them that do own me thus, even as them that yet do not--  
  
[the Ten look down awkwardly, a little ashamed; the Feanorian contingent gives him startled looks, some angry, some wondering]  
  
\--nor be it meet that I should add one measure to the judgment that hath been given unto thee, presuming to greater wisdom than the Powers thereby. Aye, and thou hadst known less sorrow, hadst indeed returned home in that time, -- but this thou dost even ken, ere didst speak it.  
  

Ex-Thrall: [softly]  
    
Like son, like father --  
  
[the two Noldor Kings steal glances quickly at each other, before she goes on, this time to Amarie:]  
  
\--And you, Fairest One, come down from your mountain -- what word for this bloodstained one? --Or will you turn away in silence as well?  
  

Amarie: [calmly]  
    
Thou art far from first, nor yet the last, that Feanor hath led astray -- nor indeed the mightiest. Bereft of the heartening strength of this Land, of Light, how might ye help but fall beneath our Enemy's sway in the Shadowed Realm?  
  
[some of the Feanorians bridle at her words, but others look troubled and downcast; the Seneschal remains bent, anguished, where he has turned away]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
You speak of him \-- but what says she who would not be led, nor driven, but held firm in her resolve despite all persuasion?  
  
[turning her head, she matches stares with Nerdanel, who draws near to her with an untroubled expression and kneels down a short distance in front of her while she addresses her:]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
What hast thou done, child, that mine own children did not? --And yet I love them, nor shall ever cease.  
  
[the former Healer bows her head a little, closing her eyes, and then squaring her shoulders looks up coolly at Elu Thingol's emissary.]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
Well, lord of the Grey folk -- hold you still with your lord's judgment on us? Or have you learned mercy in your own death?  
  

Ambassador: [in a detached, level tone]  
    
You have acknowledged your deeds, Feanorian. Anything further that I might say would be both needless and cruel.  
  
[they both sigh, recognizing that this isn't enough, and it's the best that he can give or she will get -- and then she turns to look at the shade from Alqualonde.]  
  

Ex-Thrall:  
    
And you, Foamrider, who said but a little while ago that such a fate was no more than such as I merited -- what do you say to me, Kinslain?   
  
[the Sea-elf stares at her directly, her eyes very wide, her face otherwise expressionless, for a long moment.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I think -- I think you have been tortured enough.  
  
[the Ex-Thrall flinches as if the other had struck her instead, shaking her head a little in protest, and then looks at Beren]  
  

Ex-Thrall: [softly]  
    
Now that you know the truth of me, traitor as much as victim -- will you shun me, mortal?  
  
[he shakes his head, very deliberately]  
  

Beren:  
    
I remember.  
  

Huan:  
    
[thin whines]  
  
[the Hound walks slowly over beside her, tail dragging, and puts his head down by hers: she doesn't respond, but doesn't push him away either. Moving softly, as if not to startle a hurt animal, Finrod comes to kneel down directly in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking her directly in the eyes]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Someday -- you will take up your name again, and it will be true again, and you will sing once more, under the Stars.  
  

Ex-Thrall: [disbelieving]  
    
When?  
  

Finrod:  
    
I don't know. Someday.  
  
[as he speaks, her father half-turns and looks at them, as torn between hope and remorse and doubt as she]  
  
When you are ready, you will leave the shelter of these Halls, and you will walk under the sky, and your voice will give as much peace to your hearers as presently brings pain.  
  
[The Ex-Thrall sighs . . . and vanishes from under his hands without another word. The Lord Seneschal flinches, bowing his head, and disappears as well, leaving his cohorts in disarray as well as dismay. Finrod gets up and turns to face the remaining Feanorian supporters, addressing them in a quiet, matter-of-fact, but uncompromising tone:]  
  
Why don't you just go now?  
  
[the living Eldar look at him in shock and dismay of their own, while a warrior of Aglon asks his commander anxiously:]  
  

Feanorian:  
    
Sir -- what -- what ought we do now . . . ?  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
But -- what of yon poor maiden?  
  

Finrod: [blankly]  
    
\--What of her?  
  
[the Lord Warden makes a helpless gesture to his follower, struggling for articulate speech]  
  

Aglon: [shaking his head, struggling against tears]  
    
I -- I -- ah\--!  
  

Finarfin: [with a perceptive look at his son]  
    
Such trouble is not strange to thee, but oft thou must give thy counsel to the broken of heart, is't not so?  
  

Finrod: [nodding]  
    
Not infrequently. Sometimes we talk. More often I listen. Generally they just want to be seen by someone who won't dismiss them, and then we just sit quietly, or I play--  
  
[glancing over where the harp rests on the stones]  
  
\--until they're ready to speak to someone higher. That was a tremendous improvement -- usually you can hardly tell she's there.  
  
[as the four lawful Elves look at him, and each other, and the stunned Feanorians, with lingering shock and distress, Nienna's Apprentice comes in through the doorway in determined haste, sees the gathering and flings up his hands in disgust.]  
  

Nienna's Apprentice:  
    
Oh, threnody, not this again! Would you people go away and find something constructive to do?  
  
[he makes a sweeping, dismissive motion with his arm. Afterthought:]  
  
\--Please.  
  
[the Warden of Aglon turns, welcoming this new challenge as a replacement for prior emotions, as do his companions]  
  

Aglon: [extreme haughtiness]  
    
You will not address me in that fashion, boy.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Actually . . . I will. --Ghost.  
  
[the Elven warrior shakes his head, standing his ground, his lip curling at the retort]  
  

Aglon:  
    
You \-- can't compel us to do anything. Can you?  
  
[he sneers over at the Captain]  
  
\--That's what you were getting at, trying to be cryptic.  
  
[to the Apprentice again]  
  
\--Can you?  
  

Apprentice: [shrugging]  
    
No, I can't. --But I can  
make things unpleasant enough that you'd wish you'd cooperated in the first  
place.  

Aglon:  
    
How?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm . . .  
  

Aglon: [snorting]  
    
You can't even bluff properly, you fool.  
  
[his followers and associates grin savagely at the put-down]  
  

Apprentice: [shakes his head, reasonable tone]  
    
I wasn't bluffing, I was considering which option was the more appropriate one. I know which one I'd like better, but I don't think my Master would like it at all. So -- I'm just going to annoy you by pointing out certain hard truths in the presence of people you're trying to impress, one of which is the fact that you feel you have to impress them demonstrates that you in fact respect them enough to care about their respect, deny it as you may. You can't just walk away from them, or leave them alone -- can you? But they're indifferent to your good or bad opinion of them, and that's a second hard truth.  
  
[ticking the points off on his fingers, and beginning to pace restively in front of them -- in the background several of the would-be combatants quietly fade from view]  
  
Thirdly, you're blinded by your self-importance to the fact that you thereby make yourself ridiculous in the eyes of most of your fellow-dead, by pursuing these personal grudges beyond reason.  
  
[he frowns, trying to remember, and more of the rival faction discreetly slip away]  
  
Oh, yes -- and the fact that you always come off the worse in these little exchanges and yet you keep persisting in the same course says a great deal for your tenacity and even courage, -- but not a lot for your intelligence, I'm afraid.  
  
[pause]  
  

Aglon: [ice]  
    
I have better things to do than waste my time listening to your chatter.  
  
[he spins about with a flourish of his cape and stalks off, followed by his remaining partisans.]  
  

Apprentice: [cheerful]  
    
Success! Without having to hit anyone, either. Though I don't know I'll agree with his definition of "better."  
  
[to Finrod]  
  
I thought about the way you usually manage to dissipate things without recourse to violence, and decided to try it myself, since people just ignore me when I ask them nicely, and laugh when I get angry.  
  
[noticing that both Finrod and Amarie are both standing there glaring at him with identical expressions, arms folded.  
  
Ah.  
  
[to Amarie, brightly]  
  
There you are -- I was obliged to leave for just a moment, and when I came back, you were nowhere to be found.  
  
[she raises an eloquent eyebrow; he flinches.]  
  

Finrod: [abrupt]  
    
Have you got anything for me?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Erm -- oh. Right. That. Ah -- hm -- becalmed. Lulled, so to speak.  
  

Finrod:  
    
What?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Circling on a thermal. Stable. Static. Or stagnant.  
  

Finrod: [piqued, to the Captain]  
    
Have you any notion what he's getting at?  
  
[the Elven officer shakes his head, amused]  
  

Apprentice: [looking conspiratorially from them to the newest arrivals, who are giving him very strange Looks]  
    
But -- I mean, we'll be overheard\--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Just say it. I'm tired, annoyed, and out of patience--  
  
[the other looks alarmed]  
  
\--nearly.  
  
[as the Apprentice glances meaningfully at the four bystanders]  
  
Go ahead -- they're all my family, after all, to greater or lesser degree.  
  
[bland]  
  
After all, if you can't trust your kin, whom can you trust?   
  
[while Nienna's student gives him a very askance Look, there is a great deal of sudden throat-clearing and turning aside of faces among the Ten; the law-abiding contingent bridles somewhat at this, but manage to refrain from comment]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well, if you say so -- your cousin suggested that recourse be made to the highest authorities, and was met with resistance -- but the subject of debate shifted again to other things, and . . . they're still arguing again over whether it was a mistake for our divine King and Queen to heed my Master's plea and release His Majesty's brother--  
  
[in a rush, very forcefully]  
  
\--and please nobody start arguing about that now, all right? -- and that's where things remain.  
  
[Finrod looks at the Captain, frowning]  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
That hardly seems worth the trouble of reporting, now.  
  
[the disguised Maia shrugs, giving Finrod an apologetic look]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Sorry -- I'd actually come back to ask if you'd mind -- much -- doing me a favour.  
  

Finrod: [flatly]  
    
You're asking me a favor.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Just a small one. Not you specifically.  
  
[encouraged by Finrod's silence, he hurries on:]  
I -- I've been given another errand to run, and I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on things, and I thought I had that situation under control, but then something unpleasant occurred to me: what if the system I set up to do that simply wasn't working at all, and that's why there hasn't been any alarm? And so I thought I'd better check.  
  
[blank, suspicious looks from all around -- hastily]  
  
You know the, um, the remote viewer over at His Lordship's throne -- that stone sphere, well, it's made of stone -- you haven't noticed it, well, doing anything, have you?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Such as?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Glowing.  
  

Finrod:  
    
No. --Of course, I've not been here.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I know. That's wh --  
  
[he glances around]  
  
\--if anyone had happened  
to see, I was hoping . . .  
  
[the Ten share looks, headshakes all round]  
  

Warrior:  
    
We've not noticed anything.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Would -- would you, let me know if you do? If you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on it?  
  

Captain:  
    
We can try -- but I don't know that we won't get distracted and forget. Things have been rather -- well, distracting, lately, to put it mildly.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But--  
  
[pause]  
  
No. Never mind.  
  

Captain:  
    
What?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I was going to try to argue that you owed me assistance in return, but that isn't true, even considering the rather-underhanded way you obtained mine. And this -- having several tasks assigned at the same time, each one having top priority -- that's something that preceded it, anyway, and it's quite apart from it. So I really can't claim any, erm, claim on your time as a result of that, either. It isn't as though it's your fault. And you did promise to do your best.   
  
[raising his hands in a resigned gesture]  
  
Just have to muddle through somehow, I suppose.  
  
[frowning, noticing something about the falls]  
  
I say, somebody's put that all wrong again.  
  
[the apparent-Elf gestures towards the flame-illusions over the shallow end of the spill-pool, lowering them.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Stop that! That's someone else's work.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But they're all wrong\--  
  

Ranger:  
    
So? You don't just come and change others' Art without leave.  
  

Third Guard:  
    
You used to do it all the time, I recall.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Yes, but I learned better.  
  
[pause -- frank admission]  
  
After the villagers complained to the King and it was explained to me. At some length.  
  
[he looks at Finrod, who raises his eyebrows bemusedly]  
  
Thank you, Sir.  
  
[to Nienna's student]  
  
I understand how tempting it is to remake something you think is flawed, but you really ought to ask first. And if they don't want to change it, you can't just correct it for them. That's just like Morgoth, really.  
  
[the disguised Maia looks quizzical, but doesn't say anything]  
  

Amarie: [officious]  
    
Nay, 'tis false -- the Dark One would but to break, and not to build.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Yet dost thou not recall how our High King hath spoken of the Enemy's wish to shape all according but to his will, nor only after did so strive to wreck, that was not given over unto him? Of such matters Lord Ingwe hath most deeply questioned the gods, and hath knowledge most profound and widesome of us all, Vanyar, Noldor, or Teler, in truth.  
  
[Finrod can't help but cast a curious glance at the Apprentice, who looks suspiciously blank]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Yet is't not true as well, that such ill-making should be most rightly named destruction?  
  

Finarfin: [smiling slightly]  
    
Thou art most resolute, my lady.  
  
[she gives him an unamused Look]  
  

Ranger: [ignoring their argument]  
    
Anyway, you shouldn't. It's our project, not yours. Go make your own light-display elsewhere, if you don't like this one.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But I haven't time, and I'll probably get in trouble for it.  
  

Ranger:  
    
That isn't our problem.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Actually, it is -- only you don't care.  
  
[to the Ten, cajolingly]  
  
But don't you want  
it to be right? Surely you can see it's all wrong the way it is!  
  

Ranger:  
    
But it looks right.  
  
[appealing to the bystanders]  
  
Doesn't it look better the way it was?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I fear I did little mark the difference.  
  

Amarie: [sniffs]  
    
'Tis a curious amalgam of sundries, the which might eke be little changed for better as for ill.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I must say that I prefer the brighter display myself.  
  

Nerdanel: [consolingly to Nienna's Apprentice]  
    
Nay, I do confess thou hast belike the right of it, and most aptly so, for being of the coasts and seeing therefore most frequent th'effects of light on water. Yet, naytheless must I alike hold with all who hold it finer to the eye, to give thereto the greatest expanse of scintillation, the tallest of flames thereby.   
  

Apprentice: [glumly]  
    
Oh, all right.  
  
[he nods, putting the flames back as they were. Reluctant:]  
  
They do look prettier that way . . .  
  

Teler Maid: [muttering to herself in bewilderment]  
    
\--He is not Teleri. He sounds not like to us at all! Why say they so, when clearly he is Vanyar?  
  

Captain: [aside to her]  
    
People find what they expect to find. And don't find what they don't, either.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Your riddles are as poor as ever.  
  
[she frowns, tossing her hair back, and stares critically at the Apprentice, who feels it and looks over to see her]  
  

Apprentice: [reacting with pleased surprise]  
    
Oh! How nice to see you out and about, talking to people finally.  
  
[she folds her arms and looks very prickly and put-upon]  
  
Despite what reservations some might have about your choice of company. Will you be going home soon, then?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Do not slight my friends!  
  
[she is joined in her glowering by Finarfin, whose glare is perhaps more daunting due to recent events]  
  

Apprentice: [dismayed]  
    
I was only joking.  
  

Captain: [sympathetic]  
    
Good try, bad timing.  
  
[Huan makes a sudden attempt to ambush the disguised Maia but is successfully thwarted and fended off, being obliged to remain at arm's length, held by his collar, grinning and panting -- next time, perhaps!]  
  

Apprentice: [mock sternness]  
    
There you are, you -- wretched mongrel! Lady Vaire's quite put out with you, and so am I, because I've been wasting my time looking for you to tell you to stop. What were you racing around the Halls making such an uproar for?  
  

Beren:  
    
I told him to.  
  

Apprentice: [staring]  
    
Why in the Music would you do that?  
  

Beren:  
    
He was acting kind of crazy in here so I told him to go run around outside for a bit. --I didn't tell him to bark, though. I don't know why he was doing that.  
  

Finrod: [knowingly]  
    
Echoes.  
  
[to the Steward]  
  
\--Remember when he first came to Nargothrond and the tunnels unnerved him?  
  
[wincing, the Steward nods; Finrod explains to those who were not there for it:]  
  
He'd never been in such a large enclosed space, with such echoes, and they'd startle him, and he wouldn't stop barking until Cel took him out in the forest for a while. He was still rather unsettled in those days.  
  

Captain: [wry]  
    
Everyone was, then.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I think he rather enjoyed the ruckus as well, though, -- and the extra runs and treats it won him, until the newness wore off and he got bored of it and used to the City.  
  

Beren: [nodding agreement]  
    
That sounds like a dog. We had one that got scared as a puppy by Ma's hand-mirror, used to bark like crazy whenever she saw her reflection, even after she was full grown, so we were always sneaking it out and bringing it to the dinner table or the hearth and trying not to get caught with it.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I mind me of like happening, though indeed Huan swiftly grasped the illusion's truth and no more did raise alarm 'gainst the glass. But hounds do greatly take joy in singing, and oft and easily and with light excuse do lift voice in it.  
  

Apprentice: [bemused]  
    
How did we get back to talking about the habits of dogs? Isn't there anyone in Aman who can keep to the subject at hand?  
  
[pause]  
  
And now that I've managed to annoy everyone \- I really must be going. Good-bye.  
  
[spinning on his heel, he all but dashes out of the Hall, leaving the remaining company shaking their heads and staring after him.]  
  

Nerdanel: [half to herself]  
    
Who is he? Ever and anon he doth put me in mind of another one, but which, I cannot tell . . .  
  
[she, Finarfin, and Amarie turn their attention now to Finrod]  
  

Finarfin: [beginning very low key, switching tone abruptly halfway through]  
  
    
I trust and have no doubt of it, that I shall speak for us all, to enquire of thee -- Finrod, what matter is this, and what dost thou take upon thyself to meddle amidst, that seekst to interfere e'en with the deliberations of the Powers?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
The Song, Father.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Amarie: [slow emphasis]  
    
\--Thou art full as mad as all do say--!  
  

Finrod: [offhand]  
    
Oh, I doubt that. I don't think any dozen Elves together could manage to be as mad as report would have me.  
  

Captain: [aside]  
    
All of us together, however -- that's another matter.  
  
[there is a nonplused silence as the lawful Eldar struggle for meaningful expression of their thoughts/emotions . . .]


	47. Scene IV.xxi - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE IV.xxi**

    
  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[now Finrod and his following (which now includes not only Beren & Huan but also his mother's former assistant) are confronting the law-abiding contingent, who look extremely worried, (as do some of the Ten, admittedly) and expressive of definite concerns as to the level of sanity at present]  
  

Finrod: [calmingly]  
    
Strictly speaking, I'm not meddling with it in the sense of trying to change it. None of us are.  
  

Amarie:  
    
\--Pray tell, of what others thou dost speak, that are set upon this . . . venture, with thee?  
  
[she gives the Ten a cold, suspicious look]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well, everyone. Obviously. Only some of us are aware of it, and others aren't.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I confess I take not this declaration by thine ungarnish't word, all unavailéd of proof, child.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It's quite simple, really. You just do whatever it is you do, and it makes a difference -- subtle, usually -- in the way the Song plays out.   
  

Amarie:  
    
That is not by any chance possible, forasmuch as that which is done, shall be done only so that it is Sung, and must be so.  
  

Finrod:  
    
So are you saying that choice is an illusion, then? That Feanor only did as he did because he had to, because it was Sung, and had no other recourse than to deny the Earthqueen, defy the Powers, and summon all of us to join in his rejection? What does that make the gods to be, then, but hypocrites, or mad?  
  
[looking at the Ambassador]  
  
Or that my royal and holy aunt had no will nor options of her own, neither to betray my cousin's secret counsels nor to abet her in her escape, and that choosing the easiest road of unresisting silence was all that she might do -- rather than that the Lady Melian was as torn as any Elf or mortal might be in similar circumstance, caught between conscience and desire?  
  
[the Ambassador bows his head, as Finrod goes on:]  
  
\--Do we say, then, that the Powers too are helpless in the torrent of the Song they helped to make, like chips of wood in a river -- all of them, that is, except for Morgoth? That's a lot worse than anything I'm saying, it would seem.  
  
[silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Yet thou sayest not what, most plain and simple-spoken, 'tis indeed thou dost, or wouldst--?   
  

Finrod: [very much the teacher]  
    
The way I've come to see it, there is the Song, and the Song is full of discords, which weren't supposed to be there. Everyone knows this, it's what we're taught as children, is that not so? But then what? How do we respond? Do we simply ignore them, and focus on the harmonious bits? Or do we join the discordant elements, which spread all too easily, and drown out the rest -- back the winning side, so to speak?  
  
[Amarie tosses her head in open scorn]  
  

Amarie: [very haughty]  
    
Indeed, but one rightful choice betwixt yon twain, nor might any not Turned from truth countenance other choosing to be made!  
  

Finrod:  
    
But who says those are the only options?  
  
[pause]  
Why not increase the harmony? Wouldn't it be best of all to try to reclaim some of the ruined parts and rebuild them, so to speak?  
  

Nerdanel: [amazed]  
    
Thou -- deemst self able to unwork the makings of the greatest of all the Powers, after Lord Manwe even, even to restore the Great Pattern as 'twere unbroken and ne'er was, ere the Marring?  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
Oh, no. I'm no match for a god -- nor even a demi-god, and who knows it better than I? But isn't that what was done in the first place, to stop the whole of Ea from being made a wreck like Utumno, like Angband? So, then, is it not a worthy goal -- even knowing it Doomed to failure -- to try to repair what one can, restore harmony even for a few notes out of the Age, to the best of one's ability?  
  

Finarfin: [mildly, shaking his head with a look of bemusement]  
    
\--And thou deemst thyself no wise ambitious?  
  

Amarie: [earnest]  
    
Nay, this is true madness -- else worse, that thou dost set upon such path as the Marrer's self did make, striving in truth to set all to thine own will, else other there be none, to overstrike the fashioning the Powers -- nay, indeed, the One! -- did adjudge at end to best resolve the Dark One's changes--  
  

Finrod: [interrupting her]  
    
\--No, you see, that's the difference, what we do, knowingly or unknowingly, to restore harmony doesn't replace what's been changed -- that's not even possible, without worrying about the right or wrong of it -- it's just adding to it, the way you resolve a chord, turn a harsh note to poignancy, or a weak note glorious, by giving more sounds -- and the addition changes it, completely. Or like the story we all know about ice \-- cold being tried as a way of stopping everything, but instead, through constructive application of new notes, resulting in snow crystals and frozen waterfalls and icebergs and all sorts of beautiful things that have their own fitting places in the world. There might be in principle a better way to have composed it, but working with what we're given, it's an improvement.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Maybe it's kind of like when part of the hall's been wrecked by a storm or a fire or just the posts getting rotted out, and you don't tear it all down, you just fix up what's there, maybe not the same way, but you still gotta live there while you're working on it, and maybe the new way works better for something else?  
  

Finrod:  
    
That too. And sometimes  
it means going against advice, and even common sense, and even yes, breaking rules and disobeying orders.  
  
[he stares defiantly at Amarie, who gives it right back to him, while Nerdanel looks thoughtful and Beren asks the Guard next to him:]  
  

Beren: [aside]  
    
Is he talking about the Return?  
  
[the Elven shade nods]  
  

Finrod:  
    
And paying the price for it, of course. Always.  
  

Finarfin: [looking thoughtfully at the Ten]  
    
And hold all thy folk with these thy curious tenets, else theorems, whichever they be, or art the only proponent of such . . . strangeness?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not the only, certainly, but certainly not all. Some find it far too complicated or too troubling--  
  
[the Warrior looks abashed, but Finrod gives him a sympathetic grin and goes on]  
  
\--and I grant it's much easier to look at it as just a matter of doing wrong and receiving the just penalty for it. Or not breaking rules, and not doing wrong. Others find it far too optimistic -- and I can't deny that, either.  
  
[he and the Steward share a meaningful Look]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, I confess it seemeth little of cheer, to hold that one needs must do that which is forbid, and that avisedly-so, and suffer after for the doing, and all for chance that good may come to pass of it, but little like, and how then may one know of surety which is good or which is ill, when all law be set aside as subject to disdain?  
  

Amarie: [sharply to the Ambassador]  
    
Hast thou heard such heretical utterances, my lord, of him in thy lands -- or did he perchance learn such justifying words of thy shadowed folk?  
  

Ambassador: [unruffled]  
    
Many such deep matters are often spoken of, when my Lady Melian is present, and many thoughts put forward, and questions asked, to which not one, but many answers may be offered, and each but bear another riddle to the questioner.  
  
[bows]  
  
\--Milady.  
  

Finrod: [disregarding Amarie for the moment]  
    
No, Aunt 'Danel, it isn't like that, of course you can't ignore everything and of course you can't do anything. But I did say it was too complex for many people.  
  
[she looks rather miffed, as he continues:]  
  
As far as being too cheerful, that isn't what Edrahil's objecting to -- but there's more to it. You see--  
  
[he is interrupted as a pair of Elvish shades enter (or as it proves re-enter) the Hall: the Youngest Ranger who is still rather twitchy and hypervigilant, quickly draws another arrow and sets it to the bow he has not reslung since the last conflict, but only keeps it trained on the latest arrivals -- even when it become clear that they are the King's brothers.]  
  

Aegnor: [snappish]  
    
Oh, good grief! --Put that away!  
  
[he ignores the fact that the Teler warrior doesn't, and with Angrod strides up to the ongoing family reunion.]  
  

Fourth Guard: [aside]  
    
\--Who's using mortal slang now?  
  

Aegnor: [with a bright, fixed, savagely pleasant smile]  
    
Quite the Gathering you've got going on here, Finrod. Taking over hospitality functions along with counseling and building maintenance, hm?  
  
[to Amarie]  
  
Hullo, dear sister -- you've met our newest cousin, I believe?  
  
[he nods towards Beren, and she frowns, first curiously, then in sudden thought, but he goes on before she can say anything:]  
  
You were right when you said we'd all come to a bad end, you know -- but I never expected to see you here as well--  
  

Finrod: [sharply]  
    
Why are you here?  
  

Angrod: [trying to calm things down]  
    
We could tell you were in trouble so we came to help.  
  

Finrod: [snippy]  
    
Well, it wasn't needful -- I could have managed it on my own, there weren't enough of you to make a difference if I hadn't, and you're too late anyway. But -- I thank you for the intention.  
  

Captain:  
    
Better late than later, what?  
  
[the two siblings do not appreciate this at all; he gestures to his subordinate to stop covering them, and the Sindarin Ranger denocks the arrow, but doesn't put his weapons away.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
If you hadn't been dithering about what you were going to say to Father et al, you might have got here in time to provide moral support. As it is you managed to get the worst of both outcomes.  
  
[Aegnor is resolutely avoiding looking at Finarfin, who is in turn looking very sadly at his children. Nerdanel draws near and pats his arm consolingly. Amarie does not seem to have been successfully deflected by Aegnor's attempt to direct her attention to Beren. The Ambassador from Doriath is looking at his King's grand-nephews and shaking his head.]  
  

Angrod: [sighing]  
    
Please don't be difficult. --We're trying not to.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Very well.  
  
[he turns back to the conversation as if there hadn't been any interruption]  
  
Anyway, Father, what I was saying was, it isn't an attempt to change the Song from what it was intended to be originally, or to make it back into what it was intended to be, either.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Thou has returnéd upon thine own words most uncommon paradoxical.  
  

Finrod:  
    
No, it isn't really that complicated, listen--  
  
[Aegnor addresses Beren quietly, in a tone gruff, but surprisingly polite, considering]  
  

Aegnor: [aside]  
    
Has he said the word "destiny," yet, Beor?  
  

Beren: [wary]  
    
Uh -- not recently. I -- don't think.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Not in this conversation?  
  
[Beren shakes his head, Aegnor elbows his other sibling and shakes his head.]  
  
Six.  
  

Angrod: [a bit guiltily]  
    
\--Twelve.  
  
[Beren gives them an uneasy look, and then glances at the Ten, who are either ignoring them or ignoring them obviously]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--because it can't be put right without undoing the World, but it can be mended. The gods can't do everything -- we just help them out a little. If we do good, that is, and not ill.  
  
[Amarie closes her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Nay, thy pride surpasseth all no measure, for 'tis deeper than Osse's crests, wider than Uinen's tresses, and ceaseless as the restive Sea! Hast thou not shame, to so set limits to the very Powers?  
  

Finrod: [baffled]  
    
But surely you don't think they're all-powerful, all-knowing? That's what I said before -- that if you think that, then you have to either accept that they're completely deranged, -- or just plain evil.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Why "plain" evil, indeed and how differeth such from evil of other kind?  
  

Finrod: [rolling his eyes]  
    
It's an emphatic. It means evil, and nothing more, no justification. --The Song is too big -- there's too much of it for any one soul to understand, god or not.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah, like the myth about the Earth-queen forgetting how she'd already made herself Children, too, until King Manwe reminded her.  
  

Amarie: [appalled]  
    
Thou didst speak of that to all-and-sundry? 'Tis not enough hast gossiped of me, of us! but must e'en bruit about the private quarrels of the Holy Ones as well?  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
You mean he shouldn't have taught us the true stories, when we only had the foggiest ideas about Valinor? We thought it was in Beleriand, even. And we--  
  

Finrod: [a little too quickly]  
    
And because of that, even if things are Sung, it doesn't mean that freedom's but an illusion, because there's all the difference in the world between a piece composed and the actual performance, which is what we are, this world, only we're also the performers, don't you see? and moreover there are so many competing and conflicting and just plain different things going on, that the results when they collide or overlap or run together are something no one, not even the Singers, could have predicted.  
  
[gesturing animatedly with increasing enthusiasm]  
  
\--Or like waves, out against the coast, they don't come neatly up to the headlands in even rows, though logically they ought to always, and keep on so -- but they cross, and divert, and set up overtones, and then there's the Moon, and that rearranged everything! Because there are the completely mysterious parts, that the Powers themselves didn't put in, and no one knows what they'll do, or how they will affect the Song -- and us, that are of it -- and all we know for certain is the destiny of Arda will be changed out of all expectation.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Told you.  
  
[Angrod takes off the ornate torc around his neck and gives it to his sibling. Finrod sighs, tolerant but a little disappointed-seeming.]  
  

Beren:  
    
What?  
  
[pause]  
  
What are you two betting on?  
  
[now that everyone is looking at them, the Princes are unsuccessfully trying to hide embarrassment with nonchalance]   
  

Angrod:  
    
Erm -- the question of how long -- or little -- time, how many exchanges, it would be before--  
  
[he can't meet Finrod's gaze, and breaks off]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
\--Before he started talking about his visions and this cracked idea he has about how the world will be after the end of the world.  
  
[silence]  
  

Finrod: [calmly]  
    
Not visions. There's just the one. And I'm not mad.  
  
[Beren glances around with a wary expression]  
  

Beren:  
    
Um. I feel really stupid asking this, and maybe it's obvious to everybody here who isn't human, but -- isn't "the world after the end of the world" a something-or-other, whatsit, uh, you know, a--  
  

Steward: [quick and unobtrusive]  
    
\--Contradiction in terms.  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. That.  
  
[before Finrod can begin to explain, his brother cuts in:]  
  

Aegnor: [caustic]  
    
Hasn't he told you? You're supposed to save the universe or something.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Me?  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Well, obviously, since you've managed to pull off marrying one of the Firstborn. Luthien too, since she's managed the corollary. It's got to be the case that you're the ones to bring about this great destiny, to carry out this vision of his, because otherwise you wouldn't have been any -- luckier -- than your aunt and myself. You're just pawns of Fate, you see.  
  

Beren:  
    
\--What??  
  
[he looks around at them all, baffled and not a little disturbed; the Captain covers his face with his hands]  
  

Captain  
    
Dear Lady, here we go again -- please no!  
  
[Finrod glares at his brothers with smouldering anger, well under control, but appearing for the first time]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I thought you were not here to cause me difficulty, nor to harrass him, but to help.  
  
[to Beren, rather helplessly]  
  
There is a -- a prophecy, so to speak. But it's only mine. Not the gods'. And it -- it isn't a definite one. Not like the one for my death. And you remember how -- uncertain, that one was, how I told you it seemed as though it were about to be fulfilled at the Bragollach -- and would have been, were it not for your kindred. I didn't only help you to somehow further my own convictions, as if -- as if you two were some sort of experiment.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Have I ever doubted you, Sir? I understood why you thought we were a bad idea when you talked about it with me in the City. Even before I knew about the problems in your -- our \-- family.  
  
[at this last, Finarfin looks from them across to his other two sons, who hastily look away from his gaze]  
  
I wouldn't have thought you protected me just to obey a prophecy or some ulterior motive. But if you thought that some great destiny had to be involved for us to get together in the first place, then it makes sense that you'd go along with it in spite of your doubts, and maybe for that reason let your judgement get overrode by enthusiasm. And I don't think it makes any difference one way or other for you helping me, any more than your being dead or your debt to Da.  
  
[nodding towards Aegnor and Angrod]  
  
\--I don't listen to these guys, anyway. It's not like I know them or anything, not like you.  
  
[the Princes look severely disgruntled, the Ten wickedly pleased]  
  
Go on -- I'm not gonna get upset.  
  

Finrod:  
    
All -- all right.  
  

Amarie: [aside]  
    
The very Powers daunt him not a whit, yet this Follower child confoundeth him that ne'er did I see uncertain . . . !  
  

Finrod: [a little weary and flat, now]  
    
It seems to me that all  
of us are Called to something, whether we know it or not, and perhaps we -- the Firstborn -- are helpless to work against the Song, the parts of it that are Marred or otherwise, with any real effect, because we are too closely bound to it to change it, too close to see it properly, the way one must step back from any Work to judge it in its setting and overall. But the Secondborn are not, and what we Elves have thought of as weaknesses, to be pitied and feared, might be instead strengths, to be used for good or ill to reshape the world. --For good, of course, is my hope.  
  

Beren:  
    
You mean that we -- mortals, us -- might have been put here to help undo the Marring?  
  
[he looks around to see if the Eldar around him think this is a joke, but not even the Princes are smiling in derision]  
  
And that my finding Tinuviel was supposed to be part of that?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes.  
  

Huan:  
    
[quiet keening, not quite loud enough to be obnoxious]  
  

Beren:  
    
Huh.  
  
[pause -- Finrod looks at him anxiously, but when  
he continues it is a bit sadly, but not anguished:]  
  
I think -- probably we already did it, only -- I botched it all up. --The Silmarils.  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head, earnest]  
    
You're still here. The story isn't over yet. You don't know that that was the reason for your existence, the Great Work you were meant to do. It might not even be anything, not a thing like the Trees or the Silmarils, or a Deed like finding the Children and leading them West. I thought mine was Nargothrond, and then I realized that it wasn't, and that was a terrible shock -- but I had to keep doing it, I couldn't just stop and do something else.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
And what, child, dost thou hold this Great Work of thine to be, that thou dost strive for but makest not, if not indeed the mending of all that's Marred?  
  

Finrod: [faint smile]  
    
I don't know, yet. If Itell you my suspicions, you'll have no doubts as to my sanity at all.  
  

Finarfin: [deadpan]  
    
Nay, but doubt after which fashion, absent or present?  
  
[Finrod starts to share a grin with his father, and then checks himself; the living King sighs and looks away]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Hast not fear to offend the Valar further, that hast been so gently pardoned and thy transgression set aside?  
  

Finrod: [blinking]  
    
No. I . . . am already dead, I have no job nor place left to go back to in the world Without, and my lady doesn't want anything to do with me.  
  
[Amarie spins half away, her arms folded tensely; he does not notice]  
  
What else could they do to me, assuming they were so inclined? But arguing the ins and outs of the universe with Lord Namo and his family isn't particularly stressful, in any case -- his Lordship gets impatient sometimes, but not offended. A little brusque, but that's just his manner.  
  

Aegnor: [grimacing]  
    
No, Aunt 'Danel, he's just crazy, that's all.  
  
[simultaneously:]  
  
    
Beren:  
    
Hey, you shouldn't call Lord Mandos crazy--  
  
    
Finrod:  
    
No, I think the Doomsman's quite sane--  
  
[Aegnor snorts in disgust, while other family members look on in disbelief or resignation]  
  

Angrod: [aside to Aegnor]  
    
You certainly set yourself up for that one.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou speakest, son, with such little deference as the Powers were thy very kin!  
  
[brief pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well -- they are.  
  
[longer pause]  
  
Yours too. All of you.  
  
[the silence continues, though most of the Ten are finding it hard to keep from breaking it]  
  
I'm not crazy -- am I?   
  
[this to the Doriathrin lord]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Our Lady is most certainly of the Powers.  
  
[with an apologetic glance towards Finarfin and Nerdanel]  
  
\--And as certainly kin to your children, so I am forced to conclude that the same holds true for you.  
  

Finrod:  
    
See?  
  
[before any of them can comment on this]  
  
And it's been true all along, only we didn't know it, because we didn't know what happened to Mother's uncle. And now it's true three different ways -- by marriage, by blood, and by marriage again.  
  
[the Ambassador winces; so do Finrod's brothers, but his father and aunt only look puzzled]  
  
\--Marriage, to Elu; blood, through their daughter our cousin, Luthien; marriage, by Luthien too.   
  
[this does not dispel their confusion, but rather increases it all around]  
  

Angrod: [frowning]  
    
No. That doesn't work. You can't count Luthien twice, Finrod.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I can't?  
  

Steward:  
    
I fear he is correct, my lord -- through Lady Luthien you may now claim kinship with Beren, for that prior bond of blood that unites your and her common ancestors; but that does not permit you to reckon the Princess as kindred anew, through that marital bond in reverse, as though she were now her own sister-in-law.  
  

Finrod: [blankly]  
    
Are you sure?  
  
[his counselor nods, his expression quite sober -- but there is a faint twinkle of amusement to match Finrod's own]  
  

Teler Maid: [loudly]  
    
Oh, he is being most silly, and all for to madden you, can you not see it?  
  
[everyone stares at her]  
  
Do not all look at me, or -- or I will vanish, I promise!  
  
[she ducks back behind the Ten in an attack of shyness]  
  

Finarfin: [to the ceiling]  
    
I do believe that here is one Maiwe, whose songs my hall long hath missed, and my lady as long withal and more of grief than merest echoes' lamentation. Oft hath Earwen asked of me, whether of deed, or of undoing, what wrong we did thee that thou shouldst rather gray death prefer, thereunto our House?  
  

Teler Maid: [calling from the background]  
    
No! I mean, it was never your fault, good my lord. --Or my lady's. Please do you tell her I am sorry from me.  
  

Finrod: [dry]  
    
I think she's only accepting family apologies in person, Maiwe -- though she might make an exception, you only being a cousin six or eight times removed, wasn't it?  
  
[Finarfin sighs, looking as though disappearing sounds like a very good option]  
  

Nerdanel: [to the Steward]  
    
Indeed, it did clean fly from my mind, that I had meant to ask of thee: is this the same young Teler whose name was so frequent coupled with thine own, by many tongues, saving ne'er thine own? Is she thy true-love, in truth, Enedrion?  
  
[longish pause]  
  

Steward:  
    
For my part, the answer should be yes.  
  

Finarfin: [sternly]  
    
What web of words dost thou make e'en now?  
  

Steward:  
    
None -- presently. Your question is nigh unanswerable, my lord: do I say no, as it seems the present truth now rests, I shall most infallibly make it thus; but if on the contrary I declare it so, then such presumption should, I deem, have but the same result in the end.  
  
[while his hearers are trying to decipher this, the subject of their discussion emerges from cover again, her arms folded and a very impatient expression on her face]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
He would say that I will be angry with him no matter what he says, and then I shall not be, but he wishes that I were.  
  
[she looks at him in amazement]  
  
You have confessed your love for me, and before your own great House, and strangers--! Nor act you as if ashamed of that no more than of me for all my folly . . . and so did I ever hope for, and now you do thus, -- and I am afeared of you for your readiness to strike, and more so for your cleverness, that even here you might twist words to deceive and confuse, and belike you do so even now to win me subject to you once again, and how shall I ever know you are true then?  
  
[her voice is almost a wail at the end, and she wrings the ends of her braids distractedly while he only looks at her seriously, saying nothing]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Alas, poor child!  
  

Teler Maid: [drawing herself together in sudden temper]  
    
I am not a poor child!  
  
[sullenly]  
  
Well . . . perchance. --Stop talking over me! You are here to harry Lord Ingold, are you not?  
  
[Finrod's relatives look at each other askance, while the Ambassador shakes his head wryly]  
  

Finrod: [easily]  
    
Just my lady, as it happens, Sea-Mew. The rest of them are actually here to harry Beren's. It's merely happened to work out that way. But that's all right.  
  
[to his family]  
  
Of course she's correct, I was jesting -- except not to annoy so much as to anneal the conversation with humour before it fractured from the stress. You're all worried about the wrong things.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
It gets better, you see.  
  
[his eldest brother gives him a warning Look]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Indeed, and some such form of it hath reached unto the multitude, else some such semblance of these discourses. --But I had for my part rather hear it out most plain and free of mitigations.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Don't worry -- I'll gladly incriminate myself further. The substance of it is this: the world is broken, the Song distorted past all hope of restoration -- even if it were somehow possible to overcome the Enemy and repair the effects of his destructive acts all in a moment, that wouldn't make it whole, wouldn't undo what was done, nor make it other than a botched mess suffering from the lack of all those that were lost as a result. So. We either have to say the whole project was ultimately a failure -- which certainly could be the case -- or that we're missing part of the pattern, and that's what I've Seen. This isn't the whole of it at all. Unless you're willing to admit that the One is a worse loser than I am, the hypothesis that there will be another Song that will make the world anew is the only one that makes any sense.  
  
[this has a predictable effect on his Vanyar bride, and not much less on his other hearers, rebel or not -- even repeated exposure to such heresies has not entirely dulled the impact. His father, not seeming as troubled by all this radical speculation as his companions, glances at Beren before looking at his eldest once more.]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Whence cometh thy certainty the Secondborn shall have part in this -- new Music, even as the Ainur, and greater verily than we?  
  

Finrod: [flippantly]  
    
Well, they've got to be doing something after the world ends, right? You don't think the Timeless Halls are just going to be filled with bored spirits playing pointless games like us here, surely?  
  
[someone behind him snickers nervously -- Beren and his father however only look at him with sincere questioning, and he sighs, going on in earnest]  
  
Because they are part of the correction, and so -- assuming of course the One is at least a little better organized than we are -- the ideal world is not as some of our family have argued one in which there are no other Children than ourselves, but one in which their music is not drowned out nor co-opted by either ours nor the Enemy's: they were made to answer the first Discords, so the only question is what shape does that purpose take.  
  

Amarie: [interrupting]  
    
Yet even so are we, and to us hath been given understanding of the cosmos, that by virtue of our nature alike as our ceaseless days doth possess a greater breadth and potentiality than might any brief transient soul.  
  
[he nods seriously]  
  

Finrod:  
    
And that is all we know. We don't know how to give it up -- how to look at it as the Powers must, as something apart from them yet dear to them, that they must outlast with sorrow as a parent who outlives children, and which cannot be grasped at nor held from death forever -- because we can't. In that way we're closer to Morgoth than we might think--  
  
[simultaneous:]  
  

Amarie: [cutting him off]  
    
Out on thee--!  
    
Ambassador: [frowning, very perturbed]  
    
Why do you say th--  
  
[Aegnor has been endeavoring to contain himself, but the endeavor fails:]  
  

Aegnor: [talking over them both]  
    
So none of it matters, not Miriel, not the Kinslaying, not the killing of the Trees, not the torture and slavery of the ones left behind or the poisoning of the lands, because it's all going to be done over properly, you see -- this is all no more than erasing out bits on a rough sketch--  
  
[as his brother and several of his Following start to answer at once, and chaos is about to take over, Nerdanel interjects, raising her hand:]  
  

Nerdanel: [forcefully]  
    
Be ye still, my kinsmen.  
  
[to Finrod, her tone dryly meaningful]  
  
Though the impulsive force of mine own speech be haply less by some degree than thy brother's, as hath been given to me to understand these several years -- still it doth much incline upon the same direction as mine own, forasmuch as such a . . . recasting should most greatly disdain all that hath preceded it, and make no reckoning of the griefs eke the glories of the former Day.  
  

Finrod:  
    
So all the many years of struggle and pain to perfect an art are worthless? The burns, the cuts -- the half-finished works that aren't quite right, but still have beauty in themselves, worthless? The efforts -- repeated -- to learn to play or sing in proper balance, weighing and subordinating individual perfection and sublimity to the whole and with regard to every performer's own abilities, meaningless because directed to a greater purpose, mastering of beauty that encompasses all prior work? You wouldn't say that about anything made within Arda -- so why say that of the world itself?  
  

Ambassador: [guardedly]  
    
From both your words and the unspoken implication of them, I must guess, Sire, that you hold your vision to have come from a source other than either of the usual channels -- that is to say, neither Beyond the -- this continent, as rarely if ever has been possible since the Dark One's Return, nor from the currents and tides of Ea itself, bearing message and meaning either as cargo or riddle, freight to be unpacked or deciphered or set into the mosaic of days, as the early flight of birds in autumn. Do I take your meaning aright?   
  
[clearly this means something significant to the gathered Elves, from their expressions, as Beren looks at them, trying to piece out the overtones and undertones of the conversation; the center of the intellectual storm is undisturbed by this challenge:]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes, that is rather the obvious conclusion, since working within a closed system doesn't usually give rise to variables and outcomes hinging on factors not part of that system. But surely you don't want to assert that such isn't possible--?  
  

Amarie: [hotly]  
    
Aye, and for what shall it be given unto thee?  
  
[Finrod shrugs]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I don't know. I've no idea why a god spoke to me out of the night and told me to build a City either -- why me, that is. The benefits of a hidden stronghold being obvious to even pacifists, I should hope.  
  

Captain: [reasonably]  
    
You don't know that he didn't Call anyone besides you and your cousin, as it's proven from the White Lady's words. It could be, Sire, that the rest of us were simply deaf to it.  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Ar-Feiniel is slain as well?  
  

Ranger: [aside, shaking his head]  
    
We should just make a list and hand it round.  
  

Soldier:  
    
Out of what? Stone?  
  

Third Guard:  
    
And think how long it would have to be.  
  

Aegnor: [brightly, not looking at Beren at all]  
    
Yes, she married some local fellow there under questionable circumstances -- and he killed her.  
  
[predictably, they all look at Beren, who looks miserable]  
  

Huan:  
    
[sharp growling bark]  
  

Finrod: [pleasantly, to his lawful kin]  
    
Excuse me for a moment while I berate my sibling.  
  
[turns and grabs Aegnor by the shoulder, furious]  
All right, I've just about had it with you. I've taken your guilting about Lady Andreth and about my failure to convince the High Command to invade Angband because I'm not completely free of blame and I feel sorry for you. But you know, I really didn't have the power to make anyone obey me. You didn't have to listen to me telling you what you wanted to hear--  
  
[as his brother raises his hand]  
  
Go on, hit me, that's part of my job, isn't it? -- to make the unpopular decisions so no one else has to and take the blame for the consequences, because there are always consequences, and never make mistakes, never be wrong, because I'm the King. --How dare I get myself into a situation I couldn't get out of, trying to save your lives? How dare I lose the Northwest Passage, and the North, and Nargothrond? You might almost think it was Fated, now, mightn't you?  
  
[Angrod tries to intervene, but doesn't get a chance]  
  
\--And when it comes to it, why weren't you able to convince your own best friends that an attack was in everyone's best interests? Hm? Why didn't you work on getting Cel to push his brothers into going along? Though I gather you did -- so why didn't you succeed?  
  
[letting go of Aegnor and gesturing widely]  
  
I couldn't solve all your problems for you in Beleriand, and guess what, I can't solve them here either. I'm sorry about that, that I can't fix everything that's gone wrong on either side of the Sea -- the Starmaker knows I tried, as well as failed, even if you don't -- and I'm sorry I couldn't even avenge you -- but right now there is a problem that possibly I can affect, and must at least endeavor to, and if it is a matter painful to us both, and cannot but bring to heart that sorrow afresh, still must we endure it.  
  
[a little quieter]  
  
I'm not asking you to believe me. Nor even to help our cousin and our friend. I only insist that you not cause any more problems for them. --But that is all I'm going to say to you on the subject. One way or another. Do you understand?  
  
[snorting]  
  
If you don't, or won't, -- then get out of my sight. Now.  
  
[Aegnor stares at him, his mouth working, but unable to speak; torn between hauling off and slamming his eldest, and vanishing, he flickers for a moment, then pulls away and stands a little ways off, his arms folded, his eyes closed in pain. Huan comes up to huff comfortingly in his ear, and gets a hard shove on his nose for his pains; meanwhile Finrod turns back to the conversation, and the horrified gazes of his family. Puzzled:]  
  
\--What?  
  

Ambassador: [warily]  
    
You . . . displayed ill-humour, Majesty -- if I may understate.  
  

Finrod: [still slightly manic]  
    
Yes, well, it does happen from time to time.  
  
[his relatives are all still taken aback: ironically]  
  
\--It isn't as though I drew a blade on him, after all.  
  

Teler Maid: [almost whispering]  
    
But -- you shouted at him . . .  
  
[their reaction leaves him a bit off-balance -- he looks at the Ten for reassurance, and gets it, if a bit strangely:]  
  

Steward:  
    
Considering, my lord, that of all us that are present I have known you the longest, the latest, and the most continuous, and I have only seen you mastered by anger four times in as many yen -- towards your cousins, at Alqualonde, your father, at Araman, against the Enemy on the battlefield at the Sudden Flame, and towards Nargothrond at our exiling -- it is I believe infrequent enough to warrant marvel.  
  
[with a shrewd look at all the Finarfinions]  
  
There were perhaps other occasions when I was not present to witness, certainly, and I do not reckon such situations where a severe rebuke was required and furnished with appropriate mannerisms -- of which last I incline to judge this latest outburst, at least in part.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Somewhere near half -- I'm not sure of the exact proportion, myself. I trust there won't be another occasion for it in the near future, either.  
  
[picking up where he left off again]  
  
So, anyhow -- it depends on how you look at it, whether you see it as contradiction, as change, or as but a wider understanding of Fate than we've grown up accepting, unquestioningly. I don't think it's as radical or unsettling as everyone seems to believe: after all, I'm not saying that the Song won't end and we along with it -- only that there will be a new Music, and everything made new in it. --As we should have been.  
  

Amarie:  
    
All?  
  
[he nods]  
  
Dost reckon full the consequence of this thy claim? Even unto Morgoth, verily?  
  
[again he nods, seriously; clearly she wants to say more, but it's too much to be able to get out]  
  

Beren: [unfolding realization]  
    
That's what you meant. That's \-- what you were trying to tell me when -- right before -- before you died. When you said. . . we might not meet again, but maybe it would be all right somehow. I thought -- after \-- you meant about--  
  
[nodding towards Huan]  
  
\--that they might win. Not that we'd meet like this -- or after . . . after the after-everything.  
  

Finrod: [softly]  
    
I didn't dare raise any false hope -- I owed you honesty, not comforting lies, but -- I couldn't leave you with nothing but my failure, when I might be right after all. --I never Saw this, though.  
  
[worried]  
  
Are you -- angry with me, for telling you no more of my vision than that "maybe" --?  
  
[Beren looks at him fondly, shaking his head]  

Beren:  
    
You spoke truer than you knew, then.  
  

Captain: [aside]  
    
Thank you, my Lady!  
  

Beren: [hesitant, but earnest]  
    
Maybe -- maybe again, too . . . ?  
  

Amarie: [to Finrod, with a drastic gesture, very agitated]  
    
Nay, this madness doth far outpace thine eldest uncle's! Which shall be worse, I ken not -- to grasp even at eternity, nor rest content with all that hath been given us -- else to proclaim that such as he shall stand beside the Powers as gods verily -- else to hold thou knowest better far than even holy Manwe how this Ea is, and shall even be, withal, as thou wert Varda herself to grant such clarity unto the greatest of the cosmos? Hast thou not dread -- nay, I speak not of shame to thee! -- concerning of their affront, to hear of this thy foolish pridefulness?  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nay, dost thou truly hold the gods ken naught of thy love's certainties? Think, child! [as Amarie gives her an affronted look in turn:]  
  
\--Whence came yon troublesome rumours, the truth of which we have so plainly heard outspoken?  
  
[to Finrod:]  
'Tis a most fair dream, to be sure, and the greater part of mine own counter to it hath fled like the molten flux before the most burning proof: that well indeed thou kennst this world its sorrow, nor recketh lightly of it, nor deemst it but foundation to the rest, as 'twere nay than the crushing of gravel fine to set beneath the footing of a lofty pergola. Yet still I may not but acknowledge it as shown, that thine hope of Arda Envinyanta is aught other than thy wish, from earliest days, that all thy kin might dwell together in peace and all their rivalries be given o'er, and now thou hast found to thyself more kinfolk even, and would of thy most generous spirit gather all these as well, about thee for ever more.  
  
[as he starts to protest once more]  
  
Nay, I confess I would most gladly consent with thee, saving that my doubt, that hath seen all fair beginnings fall to wrack and ruin, and every clarity made dark, and how joy turneth ever unto sorrow, findeth it still nor ever too light a resolution. --But, youngling, thou dost self little service, to win thy theorem hearing, thus to make utterance in manner so short and prideful, as wert all ways plain and manifest, and only fools might not see it likewise.  
  

Finrod:  
    
. . .  
  
[she does not look away, and he turns after a moment to the Steward.  
\--Edrahil -- am I being proud and impatient about it?  
  

Steward:  
    
Aye, my lord, and so should I declare even did I hold with it.  
  
[Finrod looks towards the Captain, who nods agreement soberly, and then back to his relatives]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Sorry. I suppose I was abit overbearing.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Such shall be ever hazard of this our lordly duty, I fear.  
  
[his eldest gives him a wary glance, which becomes more uncertain when he sees the living King's expression is rueful amusement, not sarcasm]  
  

Angrod: [shaking his head]  
    
For myself, I'd like to know what Galadriel would have said to all this. I can't imagine our sister wouldn't bring a measure of cold reality to temper the conversation.  
  
[at Finrod's Look]  
  
\--I'm only saying what I think--  
  

Nerdanel: [interrupting]  
    
\--Indeed, and another matter that all that's followed did drive from recollection: wherefore the meaning-insolence of my former vassals in their words concerning thy youngest sibling, that she of all of ye did swiftest and most fully take to the other Shore?  
  

Aegnor: [over his shoulder, shrugging]  
    
Probably they were talking about how she and her consort took off on that expedition retracing the March with a bunch of fellow lunatics. Or else that she moved to Menegroth in the first place.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Artanis hath wed?!?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh, that's right--  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Or when\--  
  

Finrod: [frowning]  
    
Hm. --Edrahil, do you recall--  
  

Finarfin: [keeping going]  
    
\--Or unto whom?  
  
[somewhat exciteably the Sea-elf points to Beren, with an "I know this!" attitude:]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
To one of his cousins!  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh, that's gonna conf--  
  

Nerdanel: [to her nephews, in greater astonishment]  
    
\--Thy sister also hath taken a mortal consort?  
  

Ambassador: [quickly]  
    
\--By marriage, gentles -- that is to say, one of l--Lady Luthien's cousins, of royal Olwe's kindred, the Lord Celeborn.  
  
[Finarfin looks more bewildered than relieved]  
  

Angrod: [reproachful]  
    
You didn't tell them?  
  

Finrod: [staring at him innocently]  
    
No, somehow it seems to have slipped my mind, what with being preoccupied trying to save the universe, anger the Powers and oh, by-the-by, pack in four-hundred-going-on-five years' worth of adventures into what seemed like half-an-hour, not to mention all the interruptions and--  
  
[chastened, Angrod raises his hand in appeal, in a gesture and manner very typical of his eldest sibling]  
  

Angrod:  
    
Ingold -- please.  
  
[without any warning a banshee screech of unmitigated fury echoes throughout the entire Hall, startling everyone, though there is no visible source]  
  

Beren: [wild-eyed]  
    
That's Tinuviel--  
  
[before anyone can do anything beyond react in concern, Luthien herself appears, out of thin air, in a tearful rush, shoving anyone in her path aside and flinging her arms around Beren's neck]  
  

Luthien: [incoherent]  
    
\--Beren -- Beren \-- you're still here\--  
  
[she steps back, looking at him as if she can't believe it, while Huan crowds in as though he hadn't seen her for decades and recognizes that she needs a dog welded to her side, even if she doesn't]  
  
Oh, Beren, dear one, it's no use, there's -- you mustn't trust anyone here, you can't trust my family, it doesn't matter what side of the Sea they're on--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not even us?  
  

Luthien: [impatient]  
    
Oh, don't be stupid \-- of course you.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
Don't -- don't listen to anyone -- else, or let anyone talk you into anything, don't agree to anything, no matter how innocent it sounds, or reasonable, don't -- Oh!  
  
[she shakes her head in outrage, unable to keep going -- he catches hold of her forearm, trying to get her to calm down]  
  

Beren: [intense]  
    
\--Tinuviel. --What -- did -- they -- say?  
  

Luthien: [with a convulsive shiver]  
    
He said -- he said you could be -- be put in some sort of suspended animation, unconscious, as though you were someone who'd returned from Exile illegally and that way we'd still be married but I wouldn't have to worry about you and you wouldn't technically be in Aman, you'd be on some islands somewhere, and so it would all be lawful.  
  
[he lets go of her wrist and draws himself up, shocked]  
  

Beren:  
    
W--what?!?  
  

Luthien: [nodding]  
    
That's what I said. I --  
I -- yes.  
  

Beren: [flatly]  
    
Unconscious. For how long?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Always! I told them, it was bad enough, you were unconscious for a whole season, why would they think I would be happy with you like that forever?  
  
[he is staring at her in disbelief, rapidly replaced by conviction to match hers that this is not a misunderstanding, while Nerdanel looks at Finarfin and her nephews incredulously and Amarie, frowning, shakes her head in disagreement.]  
  

Finrod: [disgusted]  
    
Honestly. I should have insisted on being present to help keep things in perspective. This is ridiculous \-- and I'm going to tell Lord Namo so myself as soon--  
  
[Beren whirls to face them]  
  

Beren: [almost incoherent in his own distress]  
    
No -- you don't understand. None of you! You -- I -- you can't!  
  

Finrod:  
    
Beren--  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
There's nothing -- look, my whole life I spend fighting against the Dark, and I lose everything, and when I ask the gods for even a little help, the only choice I get is between exiled to Death now or exiled to the Grey Country forever? What -- kind of choice is that? Why can we not get even the least break? We've been patient, we've trusted the Powers to do right by us, we're not the bad guys, but--  
  

Finrod: [trying to reassure him as before]  
    
Beren, it isn't--  
  

Beren: [ranting]  
    
Don't! Don't lie to me now \-- there isn't any hope, Tinuviel's right, nobody cares, no one can help us and you do not understand because you're here and you don't have anything to lose, there isn't any place else for you to go and even if Amarie won't listen to you now there's still hope for you, you do have forever, and no matter what -- even if you're right -- and Ages down the road we do get to find each other again, that isn't going to make the forever in between any less of a Hell for us!!  
  
[as Finrod reaches out, upset, he flings him away and storms a short ways off, stopping abruptly to stand, his back to them, fist clenched at his side, shaking. No one quite dares to approach him -- except for Huan, who realizes that it's Beren who needs a canine shadow and additionally to have his ear snuffled and a dog nose shoved under his chin. The upshot of this is to cause the mortal to turn and hug the Hound, leaning against Huan's chest for a moment before wearily but resignedly rejoining the assembled Elven company, ghostly and otherwise (still with a divine Hound practically welded to his side.) After kissing Luthien quickly and she brushing the hair out of his eyes with an anxious caress, he faces the Nargothronders again.]  
  

Beren: [raggedly]  
    
Sorry. I -- didn't mean to be ungrateful. I just -- lost it and said stuff that felt true but -- I know you can't help it, and you would if -- I don't mean any of that.  
  

Teler Maid: [sympathetic]  
    
I do that sometimes.  
  
[thoughtful]  
At least I did before. It -- it is harder, now, not simply here. Perhaps I am growing up.  
  
[hastily]  
  
I did not mean to call you but a child, my lord.  
  
[to Luthien]  
  
\--Or you, for such a Doom would put any out of temper, I think. Would you not agree?  
  
[this last, innocently put to the newcomers, evokes expressions ranging from pensive to taut to intensely so; Beren, with Huan still "at heel," approaches Finrod & stands before him looking up at him unflinchingly -- despite the circle of witnesses, it is an extremely personal moment]  
  

Beren:  
    
I cut you awful bad, didn't I?  
  
[sighing]  
  
I'm sorry.  
  
[the other shakes his head, smiling sadly]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I've dealt with angry Men before. That -- wasn't the worst that any of your family has said to me.  
  

Beren:  
    
An' . . .?  
  
[the Elf-lord nods, and he sighs again]  
  
\--Not so much angry -- as terrified. I haven't been afraid -- not really, not since they said that Carcharoth was dead -- not even here, even before he came--  
  
[scratching under the Hound's jaw]  
  
\--but now? I'm scared out of my wits. I don't know what's coming, what to do, and it just keeps looking worse. And that's not going away. Actually--  
  
[grimacing]  
  
\--yes, angry, and that isn't going away either, but -- now I'm riding it and not the other way 'round.  
  
[he looks around at the Ten earnestly]  
  
Only there's nothing for me to fight or destroy here, and that's sort of all I know how to do. --And wait. I'm good at waiting a situation out . . . but . . .  
  

Steward: [shaking his head]  
    
Oh, little one. --Trust the people who love you.  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Trust our King.  
  
[Huan's tail signals agreement, and Beren nods ruefully, losing more of the frenzied edge]  
  

Beren:  
    
I guess I shouldn't understimate you all, either, huh?  
  

Teler Maid: [a little too loud]  
    
But of course not!  
  
[embarrassed, she winces, but Finrod smiles at her, and she perks up again]  
  

Finrod: [sincerely]  
    
Thank you for that encouraging confidence, Maiwe.  
  
[to Luthien]  
  
What, exactly, are they objecting to with regards to your marriage?  
  

Luthien: [flinging up her hands]  
    
Everything! --Nothing. No one seems to take me seriously! They all still treat me like I'm a child -- I feel like I never left home.  
  
[her father's counselor looks away, downcast; Nerdanel reaches out to him before recollecting, and sighs]  
  
Why doesn't anyone pay attention to what I have to say?  
  

Beren: [reluctantly]  
    
Well--  
  

Luthien:  
    
What?!?  
  

Beren: [ducking his head a little]  
    
Look, it's not your fault -- but -- earlier, you know -- you were coming across a little -- well, like my four-year-old cousin when we had to explain to her it was time to let her orphan squirrel go back to the woods.  
  
[as she glares at him, with rather a betrayed expression, the Captain gives a sudden loud shout of laughter, instantly suppressed, and receives the full brunt of her redirected wrath:]  
  

Luthien:  
    
What are you laughing for? There's nothing funny about this!  
  

Captain: [with a placating gesture, struggling not to lose control again]  
    
Sorry -- I -- I'm sorry, Highness, I know, but -- I just couldn't help it, when he said -- just -- trying to not think of that picture -- it's just too wrong, my lady -- you as an angry toddler, holding on to Beren as -- as an orphaned baby squirrel, and scowling at Lady Vaire like that\--  
  

Beren: [completely serious]  
    
No, my cousin was older than that, and so was the squirrel, that was the problem--  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
I know, I know, humans age differently, and -- it -- never mind, it was foolish\--  
  

Finrod:  
    
No, it was quite inappropriate.  
  
[thoughtfully]  
  
Now, if either of you had said a young wildcat, instead . . .  
  
[Luthien matches stares with her cousin, and cannot help it -- a reluctant smile forces its way onto her face.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
All right. It is a funny picture. --But them wanting me to -- to set Beren free \-- isn't.  
  
  

Finrod:  
    
No. So we'll just have to make them see reason, somehow.  
  


  



	48. Scene IV.xxi - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

Amarie:  
    
\--"Compel" --?!  
  

Aegnor: [grim humor]  
    
Yes.  
  
[Amarie closes her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief]  
  

Luthien: [noticing the Princes properly for the first time]  
    
You! There you are! I'm furious with you two.  
  
[she strides up to them and starts building up to a fine rage, while her cousins realize that their earlier blasé attitude was misplaced and try to make their protests heard over her declamation and their father exchanges an impressed Look with the Doriathrin lord.]  
  
\--I felt sorry for you when Dad punished you, you know -- but now I'm only sorry he ever let you come back! I'm sorry I ever helped feed you, or made you clothes, or sang for you, I'm sorry I healed you after that mistake with the boar, I'm sorry Mom didn't lock you both out of the Labyrinth, I'm sorry you--  
  

Angrod: [raising his voice]  
    
\--I didn't do anything\--  
  
[suddenly, the Powers appear, Namo and Vaire before their respective thrones, with Aule and his Assistant to one side, Orome and Irmo on the other; there is no flash of light nor other dramatic signal to their entrance. As the Lord and Lady take their seats, the Valinorean Eldar make polite gestures of acknowledgement; the rebels merely stand to attention, which is somewhat ambigious; the Doriathrin Ambassador, watching all reactions, shakes his head knowingly. Rather hesitantly the Teler Maid waves to Irmo, then retreats behind the curtain of her hair. Huan gives a quiet, experimental bark, but stops at once at the Weaver's severe Look. Before any of them speak, Luthien strides up to the dais in a no-quarter manner and begins:]  
  

Luthien:  
    
How could you say such a thing -- or listen to it! -- far less expect me to countenance it?  
  

Vaire: [matter-of-factly]  
    
If you hadn't started shouting at everyone and stormed out of the room in a passion, Luthien, you would have realized that it was merely a suggestion -- just one among all those already brought up -- and not a decision at all: that, in fact, it would have been rejected in short order, being merely a shifting of location, and not in any way a new way of dealing with the problem.  
  

Luthien: [aside]  
    
Somebody else say something, because I don't trust myself enough to talk right now.  
  
[before anyone else can, the Sindarin Ranger comes forward from where he is lurking at the back of the group of Finrod's people, looking utterly Doomed, and drops to his knees in front of Namo's Throne, forcing himself to look up]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Holy One -- my Lord Judge -- I beg -- beg leave, to speak--  
  

Namo: [puzzled]  
    
Why are you on the floor?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
? ? ?  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you see any of your friends kneeling to us? Anyone?  
  
[he shakes his head quickly]  
  
So . . . why are you?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Ought -- oughtn't I -- m--my Lord?  
  

Namo: [shrugging]  
    
If it makes it easier for you to speak, then yes. It doesn't look like it to me.  
  
[doubtfully the Sindarin warrior gets to his feet and stands straight before the Throne, gripping his bow nervously]  
  
What was it you wanted to say?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [hopelessly resolute despite his stammering]  
    
My Lord, if -- if I am not -- supposed to be here, then -- and yet you -- your Lady -- al--allow me, then -- why can't you make -- another exception -- for him?  
  

Namo: [curious]  
    
Who told you you weren't supposed to be here?  
  
[pause]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But -- Sir, I -- I'm n--not one of Your people. I -- that is, to say, I did assume--  
  

Namo:  
    
Are you not Eldar?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [with a small flare of heat]  
    
Not -- as some tell it.  
  
[bowing his head]  
  
\--Er -- yes, m--my Lord. But not -- of these islands.  
  

Namo: [patient]  
    
These Halls are meant to shelter such as you. It isn't the same as for a mortal: there's no intrinsic hardship or difficulty with you remaining here. If you're crazy enough to want to be included in the Doom of the Noldor, then obviously you do belong--  
  

Vaire: [reproachful]  
    
Darling!  
  

Namo: [turning to his wife, confused]  
    
What? That's word-for-word what you yourself said.  
  

Vaire:  
    
True, but -- I didn't say it in front of him.  
  

Namo: [baffled]  
    
That makes a difference?  
  
[this gets him a Look]  
  
I don't see why.  
  
[his wife gives the Youngest Ranger an apologetic, embarrassed glance]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [uncertainly]  
    
I -- I don't have to leave,  
then, H--Holy Ones?  

Vaire:  
    
Not before you're ready, dear.  
  
[speechless, he bows his head and sighs in relief; his commander pats him on the shoulder]  
  

Captain: [aside]  
    
Told you, didn't I?  
  
[the other nods, too overcome to look up yet, unaware of the looks of gratitude and admiration directed towards him by Beren and his companions]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Only--  
  

Captain:  
    
\--Don't worry about that either. Trust Himself and look out for ambushes -- same as always.  
  
[at that moment Nienna's student comes in through the doorway in a rush, hurrying up to the Thrones with the scroll clutched in one hand and something oblong and glittering, like a cuneiform tablet made from a prism, in the other, and wearing an extremely worried expression]  
  

Nienna's Apprentice: [looking around at the assembled crowd]  
    
I -- was on my way up to see you, my Lord, and I . . . heard voices raised. Is -- everything all right?  
  

Luthien: [loudly]  
    
No!  
  

Apprentice: [starting]  
    
Erm -- sorry.  
  
[with a skittish, worried look towards her and Beren,  
he turns back to the Doomsman]  
Is there anything I can -- ought -- do about it?  
  
[Namo shakes his head]  
  
Oh. Well. Sorry.  
  

Namo: [dubious]  
    
Don't tell me you've found everything on that list already?  
  
[the other shakes his head in turn]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I wanted to ask you, Sir, what if I find some of it -- do you want me to bring it to you right away, I mean, or wait until I've gotten it all together and then bring it to you all at once . . . ?  
  

Namo: [sighing, in a don't-expect-much-and-get-less tone]  
    
When you find something, yes, bring it to me right away.  
  

Apprentice: [pleased]  
    
I thought you were going to say that.  
  
[with a bit of a flourish he hands over the crystal tablet, which the Lord of the Halls takes, raising an eyebrow, and glances at -- as he does so it vanishes with a flash; which part at least seems not unexpected]  
  

Namo: [curious]  
    
What would you have done if I hadn't?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Apologized for disturbing you. --And given it to you anyway.  
  

Namo: [nodding approval]  
    
Good.  
  
[as his sister's pupil starts to leave again he gestures with his mug towards Aule's Assistant]  
  
Why don't you take him  
along with you? Two minds researching it ought to be twice as fast.  
  
[the two lesser Powers look at each other with equal enthusiasm, or lack thereof.]  
  

Aule's Assistant:  
    
But -- my lord Judge, I was contributing to the discussion of--  
  

Namo: [cutting him off]  
    
No, actually, you weren't. That's why we're here now.  
  

Assistant: [appealing to the Smith]  
    
My lord . . . ?  
  

Aule:  
    
I'm sure you'll be able to make quick work of whatever Namo needs doing.  
  

Assistant: [modestly]  
    
But of course, Sir.  
  
[as he accompanies his disguised fellow-Maia, he can be heard complaining all the way to the door]  
  
\--You don't really mean to walk down all those stairs, do you?  
  

Apprentice: [grimly]  
    
Oh no -- run. Remember? "Fast."  
  

Assistant: [disgruntled]   
    
I'm sure we could put in some sort of camshaft-driven lift, powered by water--  
  
[the Lady of the Halls leaps to her feet as they go out the archway]  
  

Vaire: [ominous (and making everyone else, Power or not, jump a bit)]  
    
\--No!!!  
  

Aule:  
    
Don't worry, Vaire -- the lad's as responsible as he is creative. He won't go tearing holes in the place without asking.  
  
[as if only waiting for all attention to turn to him, as it does now, Finrod Felagund steps forward with a pleasant, lethal smile familiar to all who were at the last Counsel in Nargothrond . . .]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Look here, my Lady, my Lords, you're demonstrating quite admirably that the art of endless debate has not fallen into neglect during the years of our absence abroad -- and trust me, I've become something of a connoisseur of counsels -- but I'm afraid that it's slipped your notice how counterproductive such ceaseless discourse and infinite recursions of every possible outcome and all the niceties of distinction are, when at the same time you complain of how much time you're being compelled to waste upon this matter.  
  
[confiding, as between professionals]  
  
One technique I used for keeping debate to a manageable length was setting strict time limits for each subject -- of course, everyone found ways around it, but they wouldn't be Noldor if they didn't. If you want, I can recommend some people who could help design a device for the purpose -- would in fact be delighted to do so. Or -- we could just stop ignoring the important things and wasting time on trivial side issues and resolve my friends' situation instead. --Unless you really have nothing better to do and are merely complaining for the form of it. I've known that to happen, too.   
  
[Namo's expression is very wry, while the Weaver narrows her brows at Finrod, who refuses to be daunted; as the Lord of Dreams turns away hastily covering a "cough," the Hunter and the Smith share significant Looks:]  
  

Orome:  
    
Can't you do something about him?  
  

Aule: [sighs, shaking his head]  
    
Unfortunately not. He hasn't been under my jurisdiction for the better part of the Age.  
  

Orome:  
    
Who is answerable for him, then?  
  

Aule: [snorts]  
    
Can't you guess? Who's conspicuous by his absence these days?  
  
[brief pause]  
  
Though if I didn't have direct information to the contrary, I'd be tempted to guess it was your brother-in-law.  
  
[Orome chuckles harshly at that; Huan wags his tail happily]  
  

Beren: [whispering]  
    
Who's -- his \-- brother-in-law? I can't remember. . .  
  

Luthien: [quietly]  
    
\--Tulkas.  
  

Orome: [cutting over her]  
    
\--Patron of brainless enthusiasts.  
  
[Beren looks angry on their behalf, but Finrod only smiles.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--The patron of loyal friends, my Lord.  
  

Namo: [ignoring the repartee]  
    
So what's your solution?  
  

Finrod:  
    
First of all, I think that instead of talking about the Lord of Dorthonion, you ought to talk to him; that rather than discussing mortals, you ought to learn about them by listening to one. Then, perhaps, you'll have a slightly better understanding of what is really best for him.  
  

Namo:  
    
He didn't have anything to say to me, earlier.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Most of us find it difficult to speak at first, until some healing has taken place, or the shock at least has worn off. Surely you don't expect the Secondborn to be any different?  
  
[the Doomsman quirks an eyebrow at his adversary]  
  

Namo:  
    
I . . . have had some experience dealing with mortals, yes. As I stated, he hasn't had anything he wished to tell me, beyond what was already said, before now.  
  
[to Beren]  
  
Has that changed? Or is he leading you into a situation you'd rather not be in but don't know how to refuse?  
  

Beren:  
    
No. I mean -- yes. I mean -- no, not--  
  
[breaks off, looking at the floor]  
  
It's -- no good. I can't do this.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Don't you believe in what you'd say?  
  

Beren: [with an impatient shake of his head]  
    
I can't -- I can't calm down enough to -- say it properly. I'm -- I'm -- damn' close to not being able to remember anything but the Old Speech.  
  

Finrod: [perfectly calm]  
    
Then say it in Taliska, and I'll figure it out again and translate for you. --Though I expect Lord Namo will understand your thoughts no matter how you organize them.  
  

Namo: [grimacing]  
    
Your confidence in me is overwhelming, Finrod.  
  
[to Beren]  
\--Yes, of course. You don't even need to use anything as clumsy as language, but most people find it easier to do so.  
  
[the mortal bites his lip, nods, braces his shoulders, tries again -- and shakes his head]  
  

Beren:  
    
Whatever I say is going to sound dumb by comparison.  
  
[Finrod starts to say something reassuring, but is cut off:]  
  

Steward:  
    
Indeed, my lord, your diction is lamentably rustic, rivalled in its uncouthness only by the atrociousness of your accent, and with no more hope of ever being polished than a cross-grained mass of splintered branches -- but in despite of that, the substance of your words is clear, and indeed refreshingly so. Or, to restate, -- you are a foreigner, and your fashion of expressing yourself barbarous: make of that what you will.  
  
[everyone except the Nargothrond contingent look shocked at this ruthless diagnosis, but the subject of it just raises his eyebrows]   
  

Beren: [emphatically]  
    
\--Okay.  
  
[to Namo]  
  
Sorry about that, I wasn't meaning to waste your time.  
  

Namo: [dismissive wave of his hand]  
    
Oh, that was hardly anything, by comparison.  
  

Beren:  
    
I bet. Anyway, I just really wanted to say one thing, and that's not just to you, Sir, but to all of you.  
  
[he looks at the Powers, frowning at each one in turn.]  
  
\--I just want to know, when  
is somebody gonna say, "Thank you" --?  
  
[deafening silence]  
  

Orome:  
    
What for?  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Maybe for fighting against one of your renegades without any help or anything, and doing actually a damn' good job of it, considering, that he had more power and more people than any of us did, and not just me but all my ancestors too, as far back as we can remember? Isn't that worth, oh, maybe at least a "Good job," huh?  
  

Namo:  
    
Correct me if I have misunderstood the information that's been given me, but was not your family tasked to guard the southern border of Melkor's territory and prevent his followers from committing crimes in that area? Was that not the price of those lands which your people were given?  
  
[after a moment Beren nods, conceding the point]  
  
And was not the particular mandate of the House of Beor to guard your tribe against predation? You were their lords, were you not?   
  
[resigned, Beren nods again]  
  

Finrod:  
    
But, Sir--  
  
[the Lord of the Halls gives Finrod a Look which daunts even him]  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you want him to speak for himself, or not? You cannot have it both ways.  
  
[the King bows his head, abashed. To Beren:]  
  
Yes?  
  

Beren:  
    
But I didn't have to. I could have gone off someplace safer. Or I could have made peace with the Lord of Fetters, and ruled as his vassal instead.  
  

Namo:  
    
If it is one's duty to protect the innocent -- a specific duty, beyond that common to all Good folk -- and it both given and accepted, then what is due to such a one who neglects that duty? Blame, or indifference?  
  

Beren: [quietly]  
    
Blame.  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you really think that refraining from blameworthy actions is enough to warrant praise?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
No, Sir.  
  
[his jaw tightens and he raises his head a little, defiantly]  
  
What about the Silmaril? Is getting one of them away from the Dark Lord just nothing, then? 'Cause that wasn't ever part of my family's job description.  
  

Aule:  
    
Yes, but you didn't return it to Yavanna, so your actions scarcely can be counted as any different from Feanor's, with the exception of an additional -- but equally self-centered -- motive for them.  
  
[Luthien starts to object, but the Lord of the Halls is ahead of her]   
  

Namo: [shaking his head]  
    
No, you've got to be fair: bringing it back to your wife was not an option that was open to him, so he cannot be criticized for not having done nor attempted to do so.  
  

Orome:  
    
No, but he can be criticized for being stupid and greedy enough to try to take all three of them -- and losing the one he had in the process.  
  

Beren: [disbelief]  
    
What?  
  
[the Hunter glares at him, and Beren gives him back an incredulous, mocking grin]  
  
You're kidding, right?  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
You think I shouldn't have tried to break them out of there? Seriously? 'Cause that's what it means, what you're saying, if you really blame me for trying.  
  

Orome: [extreme sarcasm]  
    
So you think that making it possible for Melkor to get one of his Servants -- and not just any minion, mind you -- through Melian's blockade after all this time, when nothing else could have, deserves congratulations? I don't get it.  
  

Captain: [exasperated]  
    
Oh, come on, my Lord! By the Devouring Dark, that makes as much sense as blaming him for the Gloomweaver's venom -- to wit, none at all.  
  
[Orome glowers at his former follower, who isn't daunted, while Finarfin shakes his head and Finrod gestures for quiet]  
  

Vaire: [not amused in the least]  
    
\--Would you kindly endeavor to control your language while in my house? If you must speak of the Void and -- that person \-- at least do so without honorifics, child!  
  
[slightly ashamed, he ducks his head at the Weaver's anger; her husband retreats behind his teacup hiding his expression -- surely not smiling . . .]  
  

Huan:  
    
[short, but piercing, bark]  
  
[the Captain grabs his collar and pulls him down as though he were a noisy horse, rubbing his nose]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Guys, it's okay.  
  
[to the Hunter]  
  
That was an accident. There wasn't any way to know that would happen.  
  
[as the two warriors stand glaring at each other, Finrod looks from the mortal to the deity and back, frowning thoughtfully]  
  

Orome:  
    
Yeah? You couldn't have  
figured out that hanging around any longer than necessary was a bad idea? But no, you had to try to grab all of them, you couldn't be content with what any normal human being would have considered more than enough either of treasure or of glory, and as a result you blasted it all to hell-and-gone. And now you want us to thank you as if you'd actually succeeded instead? You idiot. --Why couldn't you just be happy with what you had?!  
  

Beren: [slowly]  
    
Don't you understand?  
  
[he looks at them all, shaking his head a little, lifting his hand and gesturing in place of words]  
  
Don't you?  
  
[pause]  
  
They're alive.  
  
[still more earnestly]  
  
They sing. I -- couldn't leave them there. Do you know what that place is like? It's -- like being inside a cloud of smoke only instead of smoke, it's hatred. They -- they don't want to be there, in the Dark, they're not supposed to be locked up, no more than you'd do that to a wild bird. How could I not try? If -- if I'd left them prisoner there, not even tried to save them, when I could have -- how could I ever have faced my mother when my time came? How could I face my people? I had to try to free them.  
  
[his voice breaks, but he keeps on]  
  
\--And yeah, -- I failed.  
  
[in the silence that follows he wipes impatiently at his eyes, but does not look away, and the Hunter continues to lock stares with him until the Lord of the Halls summons his attention]  
  

Namo: [gravely]  
    
Can you truly say, young Man, that your intentions in attempting the other two stones were entirely disinterested?  
  
[long pause]  
  

Irmo: [undertone]  
    
That means -- done without concern for personal ends or gain.  
  

Beren:  
    
I know what "disinterested" means. I'm thinking how to answer.  
  
[still frowning]  
  
I can't say it was totally without thought of any glory that I kept going -- to be the one who finally succeeded where all the kings of the earth hadn't been able to pull it off, -- instead of the guy who barely got one and lost it instantly afterwards, like actually happened. Any more than revenge, the promise I made to Da's spirit over his cairn. I just don't know. There wasn't any question of thinking about it at all. If you'd ever seen them, you'd understand--  
  

Orome:  
    
Ahem.  
  

Beren: [laughing at himself]  
    
\--That's right. Sorry. --Maybe they wouldn't have driven out everything else from your mind, since you all already seen -- saw them, before. Maybe I should have just cut our losses and run once the first one came off. Or maybe I shouldn't have hurried so bad and the knife wouldn't have slipped and got broke. Maybe it is all my fault, in spite of what my friends think, and not just the fact that Tinuviel got mixed up in--  
  

Luthien: [adamant]  
    
Beren, do not start apologizing to me again. I'd rather hear my parents scolding, actually.  
  
[he nods, and resumes without further digression]  
  

Beren:  
    
Could you have taken one and said, "Well, that's all I need, so what if all my friends got killed because of them, so what if these are what all the fighting was about, what all my family got killed for, what the whole bloody War and the Dark and everything was about, all of that wasted lives and destruction, but hey -- I got what I came for, so let some other poor slob do the rest of it." I mean, it ain't like Tinuviel risked her life or anything to get us this far, or, oh, like knives that can cut through godforged iron aren't lying around at every blacksmith's shop, it wasn't that hard to get through noman's-land unspotted, like it took some kind of miracle to make it work, right--?  
  

Amarie: [to the Captain, wry]  
    
Thou hadst right -- 'tis not possible to mistake.  
  

Beren:  
    
But hey, I don't know, maybe you all could\--  
  

Irmo:  
    
Sarcasm doesn't help--  
  

Orome: [cutting him off, barely-suppressed fury]  
    
\--You little punk. Do you have any idea\--  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
\--Yeah, I think so \-- I've only been doing your job since I was tall enough to pick up a stick and not put someone's eye out with it by accident, that's what I was born to do, that's what I was trained to do, and that's what I did better than any one Man in Dorthonion except Da, so don't try to tell me that I don't know what it involves, or what failure costs, or how I think adventure's a game but it ain't all -- all banners and glory and the rest.  
  

Orome: [through clenched teeth]  
    
I didn't say that.  
  
[Namo gives him a Look]  
Yet.  
  

Aule:  
    
Whatever your intentions, the fact remains that the consequences \-- taken as reason demands we must, as a whole -- were nothing but disaster on every hand--  
  
[too late he catches himself, as there is a collective flinch all around: Beren raises his wrist, smiling as he glances at it in a very vulpine way, and looks at the Powers coolly.]  
  

Beren: [solemnly]  
    
Yeah, I kind of noticed that.  
  

Vaire: [ice]  
    
Young Man, a little courtesy never hurt anyone.  
  

Beren: [dry]  
    
I'll take your word for it, Ma'am.  
  
[before any further escalation, the Judge of the Dead raises his hand for silence]  
  

Namo:  
    
None here disputes your deeds, nor will challenge the truth of your valour, nor the intent of your efforts.  
  
[Beren looks at him, at first skeptically, then somewhat at a loss as he recognizes the factual sincerity of the statement.]  
  
Besides recognition, what else do you demand from us?  
  

Beren: [quietly]  
    
Tinuviel.  
  

Namo: [resigned]  
    
And now we are right back where we started.  
  
[he rubs his temples wearily; Finrod steps forward again on Beren's right]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Let them have what was taken from them, at least.  
  

Namo: [flatly]  
    
You want us to rehouse your friend and your kinswoman and give them both a home here in Aman.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes.  
  

Namo:  
    
And then what? I tried to explain this to your cousin already, but none of you listen very well. You of all people should know that, far better than she -- how swiftly Time passes on this Shore: what is a year in Tirion or on the Shining Plains? You spend twenty on the curve of a gate, or the bridge of a song -- and what is a score to the Secondborn? Three score years fly by like the days of the Sun to you Outside, and you know what they will bring to him, and then what? We cannot keep him bound here in an endless cycle of waning and rehousing. Would you make Luthien watch him fade while all else thrives, and have that passing all the bitterer to her for it, and this same parting once again, for him? Wouldn't a clean break be better than that?  
  
[brief pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
At least it would be more than nothing, which is what they've had.  
  
[Aegnor gives a long, shuddering sigh, but does not speak or leave the Hall or otherwise disrupt things.]  
  

Namo:  
    
But would it be any better?  
  
[silence]  
  
Giving him life here in Aman will not change the fact that she has immortality, and he does not.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Then give him mine, for I've no use for it.  
  
[utter silence -- because Finrod's relatives and friends are too aghast and taken aback to say anything to this]  
  

Namo: [sighing]  
    
What you are is not a thing apart from you yourself. You know this. Could you give your name away to some one else -- wait, that's not the best example--  
  

Finrod: [talking over him]  
    
Actually, mortals do -- usually once they're done with them, and--  
  

Namo: [interrupting in turn]  
    
I said it wasn't a good example. But it's not the same in any case: there's no exchange, is there? No loss?  
  
[silence]  
  
Your nature is not something you can give away, like . . . like a ring. Think about it: how could you cease to be yourselves? And don't say "possession," either. You are not the matter of your selves, or else we wouldn't be having this conversation, and that's one reason why it doesn't work properly, apart from the right and wrong of it. What is it that makes you Elf, and not Man?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Less than than we thought -- not that we are Quendi, for mortals speak and hear even as we; nor that they perish, for so indeed do we.  
  
[facing the Thrones, he misses his relatives' reaction completely]  
  

Namo:  
    
Truly? You understand then what it is to be born a stranger under the Stars, to be forever doomed to departure? You understand, as a human would, mortality?  
  
[silence]  
  

Finrod: [fiercely]  
    
I understand it better, at least, having been -- Exile.  
  

Namo: [nodding]  
    
As he understands better than any who is not Eldar, except perhaps Melian herself, what it is to be of the earth, to be such as you. You can recognize what is the same, in each other, because you are aware of the limits of those differences. Is that not it?  
  
[Finrod is silent. Beren turns to face him directly.]  
  

Beren: [blunt]  
    
He's right. We simply are different. And it can't be otherwise.  
  

Finrod: [absolute intensity]  
    
But it doesn't matter.  
  

Beren:  
    
I know. But even if I was somehow immortal -- forget about how if you did give it up I couldn't live with myself knowing you'd given up everything for me, or what everybody else would say about it -- I couldn't be at home here. No more than I was in Nargothrond. All my born days, I was human, if a strange one: can the pattern of my life be unwoven and made into something else? I should always be remembering Ladros, and a roof that was ancient to me, and voices I'll never hear again. And if somehow I was made to forget, so as to be happy here, like one newborn, -- what would there be of me? Would I still love Tinuviel, and she that one, who didn't know her real name? It can't work.  
  
[he looks down, shaking his head, gesturing as he struggles for words]  
  
The place where I was born is dead now, my family destroyed, even my own language is dying or dead, because there is no people left to sing the old songs or make the old jokes we couldn't ever translate into yours.  
  
[Finrod is weeping silently]  
  
Don't -- don't.  
  
[putting his hand on Finrod's shoulder]  
  
You did your best. No Man ever had a better friend. You tried--  
  

Finrod: [harshly, refusing consolation]  
    
And--?  
  
[pause]  
  

Namo:  
    
Are you ready to go on, then, Beren?  
  
[he turns back and looks at the Judge in silence; Luthien raises her hand in anguished protest]  
  

Beren: [meaningfully]  
    
For myself -- I would say yes. For myself.  
  
[Luthien makes a small hurt sound, but Finrod gives Beren a keen, comprehending look, and touches her arm reassuringly as the mortal continues]  
  
But I am not -- just \-- my own self: I belong to another. And that part of me cannot leave. If it weren't so . . . perhaps this -- nothing like this would have happened, but maybe not. You say this world isn't my home, but -- it's the only home I've ever known. The taste of it, earth and air and water, all wakened under the Sun's bright fire, clear and gold as honey from the comb, or crisp and shiny as mica under the frozen Stars, and the Moon's light like a pail of milk splashed over all -- what else am I, apart from them, still though I'm no more than the echo of those days of my life?  
  
[shaking his head]  
It might have been as hard for me to leave it, as it was for me to leave Dorthonion, lingering past all reason, when a sane Man would have fled long since -- not waited until winter was on before, or till there was no way out but through a little slice of Hell, first. Even knowing better all my life, I -- might have fought to stay, among the trees and stones and streams that had welcomed me, the memory of a lost hunter in the forest, or maybe the forest's memory of a stranger, until the world and Neldoreth was no more.  
  
[he looks at Luthien then, finally, and reaches his hand to her -- she takes it, clinging to him protectively]  
  
But then we met. And I am hers now, and I can't change that, no more than I can stop being myself. I left my homeland, for all I was harried out, of my own free will -- but it took a demon's jaws to drive me from her side, and only the word from her lips to await her here, that I left -- or else I should have stayed no matter what, as I lived four houseless years in the heather, the ghost of the land's true lord, until my land was no more. But my lady is immortal, and I won't forsake her. I can't.  
  
[they stand looking at the Lord and Lady of the Hall without uncertainty or defiance, only resoluteness]  
  

Finarfin: [aside]  
    
A certain fine rude poetry his speech encompasseth -- and a finer lesson, that might we well have taken to heart, ere the Night fell.  
  
[Amarie is looking steadily if somewhat tearfully at Finrod, who turns his head and returns the look defensively -- only to lower his head first under her gaze.]  
  

Vaire: [most reasonable]  
    
Then, if you love her, do you not want what's best for her? Do you not want her to experience bliss here with her real family?  
  

Luthien: [taut]  
    
Beren, -- remember what I said.  
  
[he gives a quick half-smile, and doesn't answer]  
  

Vaire: [extremely exasperated]  
    
Luthien, hasn't any of this conversation sunk in? I find it hard to believe that you're really that dense, given your parentage -- but the alternative is that you're being willfully obstinate in refusing to admit the truth, and that would mean so much self-delusion that I would rather not credit it.  
  
[as the Lady of the Halls is speaking (and the recipient of her lecture returns a mutinous glare) her spouse taps hopefully on the palantir, frowning at it as if sheer willpower might make it come to light with a summons]  
  
After all, we're only telling you what your cousin's tragedy has amply demonstrated about the impossibility of Elven-human relationships -- as we have been repeatedly informed of ever since his arrival.  
  
[as Luthien, and others, turn to stare at Aegnor, she goes on rather acridly]  
  
He -- and his sibling -- have taken up quite a disproportionate amount of my husband's time, and his sister's, complaining about it, as if there were no one else here whose problems warranted consideration.  
  
[Aegnor looks thoroughly embarrassed, though still angry and resentful.]  
  
All we want is for you both to have what is best and most appropriate for you.  
  
[Luthien releases Beren's hand, lifting both of her own in furious appeal]  
  

Luthien:  
    
It isn't fair. We had no time together.  
  
[the Lord of the Halls straightens and levels an attentive Look at her, belying former apparent distraction]  
  

Namo:  
    
He is mortal, and receives a brief allocation here, and eternity beyond the confines of these Circles. You are Eldar, and receive a full portion -- in many more dimensions than mortals as well as in Time -- in Arda, and it balances out. Unfortunately--  
  

Beren: [interrupting]  
    
Actually, I have a problem with that, too.  
  
[pause]  
  

Namo:  
    
Do you also have something to ask? Or did you only want to express your dissatisfaction?  
  
[Luthien is affronted, but Beren takes this in the direct spirit it was asked]  
  

Beren: [pointing to the Youngest Ranger and the Teler Maid in turn]  
    
What about people like him? Or her? They didn't do anything wrong, they never listened to the Dark Lord or told you off or disobeyed you.  
  
[to the Sea-elf]  
  
Maiwe, how old are you? When you were alive, not counting ever since, I mean.  
  
[she frowns a little]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you do not think of the same thing when we speak of Time as I.  
  
[the First Guard leans over and whispers something to her, and her expression clears.]  
  
Four twelves less -- two. --But nearer one.  
  

Beren: [amazed]  
    
You're almost forty-seven!? I thought you were maybe fifteen and that was why you got treated like a kid. But you're not that much younger than Ma -- would be -- you could have grown children and grandkids, if you were mortal, by now--  
  
[she looks a little dubious, as if he might be making up another preposterous story, and looks to the others for confirmation]  
  

Orome: [with a grim smile, very sarcastic]  
    
Perhaps a little more thought along these lines would show where the problems with your marital situation lie, what do you think?  
  
[Beren gives him a dark Look]  
  

Beren:  
    
Don't go changing the subject -- I'm gonna get distracted, and that's not the point of what I'm trying to say, and you know it.  
  

Amarie: [aside, amazed]  
    
\--Doth ever this Man conduct himself thus, respecting of no Power?  
  

Luthien: [sharp]  
    
Only when people like my Dad or Sauron try to push him around.  
  

Beren: [frowning still more]  
    
\--Nobody calls Tinuviel young, anyway.  
  
[she rolls her eyes sardonically while he returns to the topic]  
  
\--They didn't get any more time than mortals, and they didn't get bliss, and not even all the Noldor deserved what happened to them, and I 'm not talking about my friends, they know what I mean whether they agree or not, but what about them?  
  
[pointing at the Princes]  
  
\--because they weren't Kinslayers, and yeah, they broke the rules, and they knew it, but does that mean that that whatever horrible things happened to them are all right and proper, because that doesn't sound like it to me, like the time Uncle Brego had to solve a dispute between Gildor--   
  
[aside to Finrod and his following]  
  
\--Gildor of Ladros, obviously, not the Gildor you said he was named after who went with the Princess and her husband -- and his neighbors over a set of good iron chisels that got borrowed without asking -- actually, without permission, after asking and getting a no when his neighbor was away -- and then in retaliation the owner busted down and burnt the gate he made with 'em and the herd got loose and one of his best milkers got into a swamp and drowned, and my uncle was so furious with Gildor because he expected better from his own household than dumb stuff like that that he wanted to say it was just fair -- but if it would've been anyone else he wouldn't have, see?  
  
[confused silence]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
I fear talk of young Inglorion did distract my thought from talk of the rivalries of strangers.  
  

Amarie: [giving the Princes a hard Look]  
    
For my part, amazement, that after all that's passed he doth speak favouringly of twain that hath given unto him no kindness that I did discern.  
  
[Angrod and Aegnor try to appear as oblivious bystanders, not very successfully]  

Namo:  
    
I see you understand the tension between determining levels of accountability, based on individual competence. --I'm not surehow this relates to your situation.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking about everybody. I want to know how it's fair to punish all the Noldor for what some of them did, and to keep on punishing them, when some of what you're blaming them for has gotta be your fault.  
  
[the only people present who do not express any dismay or surprise whatsoever at this bold declaration are the Lord of the Halls and the Lord of Dogs -- and Beren's wife.]  
  

Steward: [quiet but urgent to Finrod]  
    
My lord, -- can you not do something?  
  
[Finrod sadly shakes his head, yet there is something of pride and approval in his expression as he looks on]  
  

Namo: [bemused]  
    
My fault?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, yeah \-- you put a Curse on them, that would make it your fault, right? I mean, I hate to admit this, but even Curufin and his brother aren't completely responsible, are they, if you made it so that the Noldor are Doomed to betray each other? And plus you let them do it -- leave, I mean -- so if you didn't want them to, why didn't you just stop them instead?  
  

Namo: [narrowing his eyes]  
    
So. You think that because I Foresaw and foretold the inevitable consequences of their choice, the results are my responsibility?  
  
[Beren nods, frowning]  
  
Really? Then let me ask you this: when your -- niece? cousin?  
  
[he manifests the glittering tablet for a moment and glances at it before putting it "away" and continuing]  
  
\--cousin, kept on climbing up that birch tree beside where you were, what, "pegging out a deerhide"--? and you told her not to do that, as she was going to fall and break her ankle, and you weren't going to stop what you were doing and carry her back to the hall, and that was in fact what happened, -- was that your fault?  
  

Beren: [amazed]  
    
\--That was a long time ago. That was -- that was before the Bragollach.  
  

Namo:  
    
Did you in fact, "put a hex" on her, as she later told her parents, or in any other way cause the tree to dislodge her or her to lose her grip, or to land so as to break her ankle?  
  

Beren: [snorting]  
    
No \-- birches aren't any good for climbing, mostly, and there was rocks all around, and I told her it was going to happen because I done -- I did \-- the same thing myself at that age. I didn't make it happen.  
  

Namo:  
    
Even the fact that you correctly named the specific injury doesn't change that?  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
Could have been her arm or her collarbone, too.  
  

Namo:  
    
But you did not cause it, despite your foretelling.  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
But you did not prevent it, either.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
Like I told Bara, she wasn't listening, and she wasn't a baby any more, and I couldn't get her down safely by force, and like she kept telling me, I wasn't her Da after all--!  
  

Namo:  
    
There was, in fact, no way for you to stop her from willfully going into a dangerous situation, either lawfully or without causing greater harm. But your decision to keep working, instead of taking her home at once, was in your control, was it not? Why did you do so, if not from vindictiveness at her disrespect towards you?  
  

Beren: [patiently]  
    
Because if I stopped then it would've dried all wrong and been spoiled, and I'd already bargained it to somebody, and you don't let any of your take go to waste, not if you want to have any luck on the trail ever again. --If one of the other little kids was around I would've sent one of them up the hill to get help, but the only reason she was out at the skinning rack was that she didn't want to play with Rian, so there wasn't anybody around that I could send. It wasn't like it made any difference, really: I splinted it up tight and made her sit still with her foot up . . . and after I was done I carried her back and they said I done a good job and made her sit still with her foot up.  
  
[scowling at the recollection]  
After I got yelled at for letting her get hurt, until Aunt An' stepped in and scolded the grownups for blaming another kid when it was their job to keep the little ones out of mischief, and not mine really.  
  
[snorting]  
  
You know what that brat did, banged her head against mine the whole way home, until I finally said I wouldn't ever take her fishing again if she didn't stop it, all because she was mad at me. --Kids. --And yeah, I get the point of what you're trying to make me see, but I don't think it works because if it was really serious, if she'd been bleeding, if the bone was sticking out or she hit her head or something, I would have had to take her home right away and take the loss of the hide and just deal with it. "Told you so" wouldn't cut it.  
  

Namo: [gesturing with his mug]  
    
No analogy is perfect.  
  

Beren:  
    
This one's not even close. I mean, you were supposed to protect them, right?  
  
[the Warrior winces visibly, as do others of Beren's companions; Nerdanel laughs a little, with a knowing expression on her face: deja vu, perhaps.]  
  
And you didn't, and the Dark Lord took over, and we didn't rebel, and the Sindar didn't, and that didn't help us any, on account of how the Enemy was out to get us all even before we existed, so it wasn't like it was our fault for getting involved with the Noldor, either, and what else could we do? It wasn't like we even knew they -- some of 'em -- had done hamsoken--  
  
[simultaneously]  
  
    
Orome:  
    
Teler Maid:  
    
Done what?  
  
[overlapping]  
  
    
Angrod:  
    
Taliska for illegal entry and mayhem.  
  
    
Luthien:  
    
\--Breaking into a home and committing violence--  
  
[the cousins exchange suspicious, rather jealously-territorial Looks]  
  

Namo: [sighing]  
    
\--The Kinslaying.  
  

Beren:  
    
Right, so what's fair about us being caught in all of that, and nothing for all our pains except a "that was what you should have been doing, fighting the Enemy, there isn't any other legitimate option"--?  
  
[he gives Amarie a frown at this last]  
I mean, we don't get help, we don't get gratitude, all we get is chaos that we didn't make.  
  

Ambassador: [not quite aside]  
    
\--Hear, hear.  
  
[the Hunter addresses Beren in the tones of one explaining something to a very small child, or while at the cutting edge of patience]  
  

Orome:  
    
The Teler chose to split up and some of them chose to remain Overseas. Others of the Eldar chose not to join us at all. That was their right. By exercising that right, they also chose the consequences. We can't help that. --Or do you think I should have forced them to come along whether they wanted to or not? Not sure how I could have done that, given how stubborn and resourceful the Firstborn are -- or wait! I know -- I could have destroyed their minds and set permanent states of Command on them the way Melkor does. Then none of this would have happened!  
  
[Vaire rolls her eyes; Huan starts a continuous snarling growl; and Aule gives the Hunter a troubled glance]  
  

Irmo: [weary]  
    
Might we please have some civility around here?  
  

Aule:  
    
Can you do that, Tav'?  
  

Orome: [shrugging]  
    
Beats me. Never tried it.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh yeah? I never heard about you coming around looking for us. I heard it was the other way around -- that we were looking for you guys, on our own, 'cause we heard about you from some of those people you don't care about because they chose not to come with you, those Dark-elves, that Turned, and we found our own way over the mountains, and--  
  

Orome:  
    
Don't blame your friends' snobbery on me, boy--  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Huh?  
  

Orome:  
    
Just because they waste their time and energy coming up with class distinctions instead of--  
  

Vaire: [cutting him off, gently chiding]  
    
Tav', I know they've disappointed you, but really--  
  

Orome: [growling at Beren]  
    
\--Self-righteous little git, too good to hunt for yourself now--  
  
[Huan starts bark again, and is valiantly shushed by several of the Ten]  
  

Vaire:  
    
\--Tavros! Huan!  
  

Beren: [loudly]  
    
Hey! I'm trying to ask something!  
  
[the Steward covers his face with his hands; Aegnor stares at the mortal with something of awe.]  
  
\--Lord Mandos, didn't you say it was my turn to talk?  
  
[raising his eyebrows, Namo gives him a nod over his mug]  
  
All right, then. Anyway. We heard about you from them first -- and then from him--  
  
[pointing to Finrod]  
  
\--even if he was a rebel and Doomed, he still told us the truth about you. At least, I used to think it was the truth--  
  
[raising his voice as he goes on]  
  
\--that the gods were good, that you weren't like Morgoth, who just wanted to enslave us and kill everybody he couldn't control -- and not only that -- that you were better. That you cared. That you made the world for disinterested reasons and you tried to protect it, and us, against the Enemy and that you were responsible for all the good stuff and not for the bad, and that we owed you gratitude for that, but I'm not sure about that any more, and you know what, I'm wondering if maybe Feanor wasn't right -- not that about making the Elves all your thralls, but about not having a clue and not doing a thing to protect them and maybe leaving everyone who wouldn't follow you behind where it wasn't safe was your way of dealing with us instead, until we Men are out of the universe and out of your way. What about that?  
  

Namo: [aside, resigned]  
    
I hate being right all the time.  
  
[simultaneously to Finrod]  
  

Aule:  
    
Orome:  
    
This is your fault--  
  
[Finrod lifts his head proudly, giving them a stern Look, not denying responsibility in any way, audible or not]  
  

Beren: [shouting]  
    
No it isn't his fault, and I'm not scared, you can do whatever you damn' well please to me, because if you can't answer me except by clobbering me that just goes to show that I'm right and you're not really any better than Morgoth--  
  
[he scowls defiantly at them, while Vaire stares up at the ceiling and Aule shakes his head, grimacing; Orome folds his arms angrily and turns half-away; the Lord of Dreams only sighs, looking wounded]  
  
\--and I'm not saying this just because you all wanted to fling me back into that nightmare world or out into who-knows-what, for all I know that's just as much the end permanently for us as you all think the end of the world will be for the Eldar -- mostly--  
  
[with a quick, apologetic glance at Finrod, he goes on, increasingly indignant:]  
  
But I'm asking because of my people, because I am their lord, and I'm the only one left to ask -- my father and mother served you, through them\--  
  
[pointing to the Finarfinions and their supporters]  
  
\--and so did my Grandda, and my cousins, and their Da, and all my aunts and uncles and grandparents all the way back to Beor, and we lived, and died, to keep your kinsman under control, in an effort that it turns out was Doomed from the start, and my parents got split up trying to do both of our tasks at the same time, and poor Eilinel disappeared and got used to destroy her true-love even after she was dead, and Gorlim was tortured into betraying Da, and you can't tell me that either one of them deserved that because it isn't true and you can't tell me that eternity makes it okay because that's a piece of tin covered with foil and bits of glass, that's something shiny that looks nice so long as you don't look at it too close or poke at it too hard, butthat doesn't make what happened to them all right!!  
  
[he stops, shaking with emotion, daring any of the Powers to say something]  
  

Namo: [unfazed]  
    
You said you had a question. What is it?  
  
[for a moment Beren is too thrown to respond -- then he pulls himself together, his eyes blazing, and asks it:]  
  

Beren: [gesturing fiercely]  
    
Where is the justice in it? --Is there any, or is the whole thing just a stupid muddle, and us stupider still for trying to do right by it? I want ANSWERS, dammit!!  
  
[growing angrier by the word]  
  
What's fair about it? You got an answer? --And if you don't -- WHO DOES?  
  
[long silence -- and the Lord of the Halls sets down his cup with a bang and slowly rises from his Throne, with a terrifying expression of anger, so that the dark thunderhead-like aura that gathers about him, dimming the glow of the sconces, is almost unnecessary]  
  

Namo: [stifled growl of fury]  
    
You dare ask me that? You DARE to ask that \-- of me?  
  
[Beren is speechless -- but returns a defiant nod. The Doomsman stands there equally speechless with rage, and then grinds out the words:]  
  
\--Wait here.  
  
[with that he vanishes, leaving confusion and consternation behind -- the Weaver gives Beren a most reproachful look]  
  

Vaire: [sadly]  
    
Child, did you have to do that, really?  
  
[abashed, the mortal bows his head, but his posture is as stubborn as before]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Oh, Beren--  
  
[he turns to her, and she smiles, anxious -- terrified, rather -- but without disappointment or condemnation]  
  

Beren:  
    
Tinuviel--  
  
[before he can say anything else the Lord of the Halls has returned, still glowering, but without quite the storm of anger surrounding him as before as he stands on the dais before his high seat:]  
  

Namo: [without preamble]  
    
Beren Barahirion, self-called the Empty Handed: you have demanded to know the reason for suffering, for injustice, for the workings of Fate--  
  
[he raises his hand, pointing to the floor behind them, between the grassy hill and the waterfall, and in the same way that the garden gate appeared for Finrod earlier, a portal manifests out of the dimness -- but this one is both far taller, reaching all the way to the ceiling, and far realler \-- there is nothing ghostly or suggestive of illusion about this massive, though narrow, carven stone doorway.]  
  
If you will it, then go ask your question of my Lord and Lady, and learn from them the same truths that were given to me, when I asked it, many Ages ago as you would understand it, and again, when this Age began. Go through that door, and receive your answers \-- if you dare.  
  
[Beren stares at it, wide-eyed, and then looks back at the Thrones. Behind him, the Captain seizes Finrod by the arm.]  
  

Captain: [desperately imploring]  
    
Sir, you've got to stop him--  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
I can't.  
  
[frowning, Beren gives the Powers a critical, measuring look, and lifts his chin]  
  

Beren: [cold]  
    
You say that like it's a trap. What's going to happen, if I do?  
  

Namo:  
    
I don't know. That's why I'm asking you this -- do you choose it?  
  
[pause]  
  
Because once a thing is done, it is too late to undo it. Are you truly willing to endure the consequences? It is not yet too late to turn back.  
  
[Beren looks at him steadily]  
  
If you find knowledge of things beyond mortal ken to be too great a burden for any Man -- remember this, and that you chose to ask, before you blame the answerer, and that you did so against all advice and counsel.  
  

Beren: [quietly, without any bravado]  
    
I understand.  
  

Namo: [with a sigh]  
    
You will go forward, then.  
  

Beren:  
    
I will.  
  
[the Doomsman bows his head in answer, and the portal swings open, revealing a black, starlit sky and a staircase of wide, shallow steps ascending from the doorway, seemingly of black stone or perhaps glass, reflecting starlight on their edges. Beren stands frozen, looking at the opening -- and then makes a small movement towards it. Luthien catches at him desperately]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Beren--  
  
[she shakes his shoulders, making him turn to her]  
  
It is a trap. If you go -- out \-- you'll never be able to come back--  
  
[Huan comes close and puts his head against Beren's face, like a worried horse, but does nothing else]  
  

Beren: [stroking the Hound's muzzle]  
    
I have to.  
  
[he looks at Luthien, trying to reassure her]  
  
I will come home to you. I promise.  
  
[she doesn't say anything, staring fixedly at him]  
  
I always have.  
  
[he puts his hand on her cheek, very gently, and kisses her, before turning quickly and striding through the dark gateway without looking back. The postern closes, seamlessly, and dissolves into nothingness, leaving all the rest standing there in silence.]  



	49. Scene V.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**SCENE V.i**

  
  
  

Gower:  
    
That boldness dareth, that none other might,  
to venture past known travels, seeking sight  
of sights more proud and dear than word shall say,  
resisting that fell arrest that none may stay,  
neither for vainglory, nor increase of store,  
but only for the cause of faith forsworn  
and wrongful sway o'ermastering captive good,  
whose tyranny, like Time's oblivious hand, would  
crush all makings and their memory as well --  
'gainst which should death seem rest from hell  
of life's lost fortunes; were not that selfsame rest  
a parting wretched, from that which holds most blest--  
  
[The Hall]  
  
[as the shades of Eldar and Immortal, and the living Elves, stand in dismayed uncertainty, the Lord of the Halls looks grimly at his colleagues]  
  

Namo: [sounding very tired and fed-up]  
    
Let's take this debate to the proper venue.  
  
[he vanishes at once, his preemptory departure followed in short order by the other four Powers, after somber and disappointed Looks are conferred upon the remaining individuals, who give each other worried Looks in turn -- except for Luthien, staring straight in front of her at where the apparition of the Door had been, and the Youngest Ranger, who drops down to sit on the floor with a massive sigh and a shaken expression, as though overwhelmed by reaction. Huan takes a moment from shadowing Luthien to give him a comforting huff along the back of his neck, since everyone knows that there is nothing more reassuring than having a giant carnivore looming over one with half-bared fangs -- at least, that's the impression conveyed by the Doriathrin Ambassador's dubious glance.]  
  

Luthien: [distantly]  
    
And so it begins again.  
  
  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
It never stops. It's just like before.  
  
[she moves in a sleepwalking manner towards the steps at the foot of the Thrones and sits down on them, looking lost]  
  
He's gone away and left me again, and here I am waiting, trying to keep from flying apart, like smoke on a windy day, and it's dark, and I can't breathe, and no one else can feel it but me. --How many times can I go through this, before there's nothing left of me--?  
  
[the other Elves move to encircle her]  
  

Finarfin: [concerned]  
    
What wilt thou do presently?  
  
[she wraps her arms about her knees and rests her head against them. Huan flops down in front of her and puts his head on her feet.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Wait. --If I must wait till the end of the world, I'll wait for him.  
  
[Aegnor's expression fills with pain; Angrod puts his hand on his brother's back, and for once Aegnor does not fling offered sympathy away.]  
  

Teler Maid: [anxious]  
    
What will happen? Next, I mean to say.  
  

Luthien: [almost in tears]  
    
How can I tell? Who can say what he's going to do next? If I'd thought he was going to take Horse and go by himself to hell, I'd never have gone to sleep. I don't think I have, since then. If I -- I'd known he would -- would insist on going out to let Carcharoth finish the job, I'd -- I'd -- I don't know, what could I have done, except cage him and I couldn't do that --  
  
[she starts crying, bitterly, as Finrod sits down next to her and puts his arm around her shoulders, letting her lean on him]  
  

Finrod: [sounding as tired and helpless as after the defeat and coup at the council in Nargothrond]  
    
I'm sorry, Luthien. --I know that doesn't help.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What will happen to him, Lord Ingold?  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
I don't know either. I'm sorry. I can't See anything concerning Beren. --I wonder if even Lord Manwe can.  
  
[pause -- mild sarcasm]  
  
How strange. None of my relatives are chiding me for blasphemy. Indeed, the times are out of joint--!  
  

Finarfin: [pained]  
    
Son.  
  
[the Steward kneels down on Finrod's other side, looking him in the eyes]  
  

Steward:  
    
My lord, please -- alas, there is no other way for it, awkward though it shall be, being as we now are -- but I must say this plain in the thought of all. Neither your father nor any of your kin did truly know what befell us in Beleriand, not even in elemental form -- no more than yonder rival lord knew the truth of what his child suffered. Only the merest tracings of it, these past months, have reached them in Tirion and beyond; doubtless in mercy as much as mayhap in carelessness, there being naught that knowing might accomplish, save greater sorrow. And thus it was when first we all did speak, this…late-passed time, and thus it would have been even yet, had not her Highness spoken freely, and disclosed the specifics of our fate.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [blank]  
    
Ah. That would make sense of it, then.  
  
[wry]  
  
I was beginning to wonder if the Powers had replaced them all with much nicer and more gentle-voiced substitutes, but I've only ever heard of the Dark Lord doing anything like that.   
  
[Finarfin winces; Nerdanel sighs, while Amarie looks like a very elegant statue; the Ambassador looks ashamedly at his Princess, who lifts her head at the change in conversation.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
What? What did I do?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Nothing. No matter. Just my own family squabbles.  
  
[he shakes his head, grimacing, and pats her reassuringly on the back. Beyond them the Captain kneels down beside his younger follower]  
  

Captain:  
    
Are you all right?  
  
[the other nods]  
  
Really?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [shakily conceding the point]  
    
No, sir.  
  

Captain: [gently, but definitely a command]  
    
Go off duty for a while.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Are you sure…?  
  
[glancing anxiously at the doorway]  
  

Captain:  
    
The King's here, and between Himself and the rest of us, that should be enough to keep me out of trouble, even without you.  
  
[embarrassed at this recognition, the junior officer starts muttering about doing his job]  
  
There's nothing we can do now for Beren -- except worry.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [deadpan]  
    
I do that really well, too, sir.  
  

Captain:  
    
We'll just have to manage without you for a bit. Take your rest -- you've earned it.  
  
[he helps the Sindarin lieutenant to his feet and grips his elbow; the younger Elf manages a wan smile]  
  
Very well done.  
  
[the other is abashed but straightens unconsciously under the burden of praise, and goes over to the level boulders beside the Falls he made, where he stretches out on the rocks, watching the light effects on the water. Among the group of troubled onlookers, his subordinate has turned to the nearer of the two Princes:]  
  

Ranger: [stern correction]  
You did, you know -- your Highness.  
  

Angrod: [completely confused]  
    
Do what?  
  

Ranger:  
    
"Anything." You called him a disgusting parasite. And you said a lot of other stuff, too.  
  
[Angrod looks down guiltily]  
  

Luthien: [through her tears]  
    
Ten years he did your work, trying to keep the Enemy out of the North, starving and cold and with all of his friends dead, and he never thought of giving up or switching sides or calling in your brother's debt. And you cursed him for being defeated. I almost hate you.  
  

Huan:  
    
[thin whines]  
  

Finrod: [consoling]  
    
Shhh…  
  
[looking up at his brothers]  
  
Considered another way -- you got off easy. So did I. It was fast for you, and we didn't have to watch it happening, but for him, the Bragollach lasted ten bloody years.  
  
[Finarfin clenches his teeth, but says nothing]  
  

Aegnor: [starts to say something, stops]  
    
…  
  
[enter Fingolfin, approaching measuredly, if not with outright reluctance, this family reunion -- certainly not with enthusiasm. He is accompanied by another shade, this last a very ghostly figure, whose appearance shifts frequently between two guises, every time the camera includes her. Sometimes the High King's companion is a very elegant Elf-lady closely resembling Amarie in her attire, but sometimes her flickering manifestation is that of a heavily-swathed, booted and gloved figure whose ice-pale hair blends into the blowing fur-fringe of her hood. Something about their bearing should indicate that Fingolfin is rather being herded here. The High King stands in front of his nephew with an expression of annoyed affection.]  
  

Fingolfin: [wry reproach]  
    
'Twas ill-done, nephew, to set my son's lady against me.  
  

Angrod: [astounded]  
    
You sicced Elenwe on him?  
  

Aegnor: [equally]  
    
How did you convince her to come out of seclusion?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not me: I was just the messenger.  
  

Aegnor: [glancing in wary surprise at his cousin-by-marriage]  
    
But…  
  
[he can't think of anything that wouldn't be more embarrassing to say, and shuts up]  
  

Amarie: [very acerbic to Elenwe]  
    
Well, my kinswoman -- thou didst make much of thine own will, nor shouldst be swayed by any words of wisdom else duty, nor let thy faithful family claim thy just loyalty, but must forsake thy heritage and home for rebel waywardness -- and lo! thus art thou rewarded, that hast neither consort nor kin, nor any house whatsoever, for thy folly's meed, that didst reproach me for choosing other.  
  

Elenwe: [serene]  
    
Nay, 'tis true -- but I stand closer to my beloved than thou to thine, for all of that.  
  
[the living Vanyar woman exchanges a quick, unwilling Look with her dead husband, and does not make further retort.]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
You've commanded my attention, lad -- what specific task would you have me undertake now?  
  

Finrod: [flatly]  
    
It doesn't matter now. Go back to your table, uncle, and finish your game in peace -- I could have used your help earlier, but you weren't willing, and now it's moot.  
  

Luthien: [sniffling]  
    
Don't you give up now too--  
  
[she wipes her eyes on a corner of her skirt and tries to pull herself together, but occasional sobs keep breaking through; quietly and unobtrusively the Steward withdraws from the group and goes quickly to the Falls, where he kneels down briefly at the water's edge, exchanging some word with the Youngest Ranger meanwhile.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I haven't. But what happens now to Beren is out of our hands.  
  
[she gives a short, unsettling laugh, shaking her head, and sniffles again.]  
  

Ambassador: [stern and rather suspicious, to the Valinorean Eldar]  
    
For what should the Doomsman warn against truths, that should harm him more than swords or wolves ever did -- what secrets are held in the West from us beyond, for I who have known the Lady Melian for all my life, can think of none.  
  
[The Steward returns, bearing a goblet set with gems and kneels down in front of Luthien, saying to Huan as he does so:]  
  

Steward:  
    
Mind your ears, my lord.  
  
[to Luthien, as the Hound prudently moves his head a little bit over]  
  
If it please you, my lady -- that which some have termed, "the echo of Ulmo's theme," but even so, more refreshing than merest longing.  
  
[with a forced smile she accepts the cup and takes careful sips, still hiccoughing and blinking; he remains before them on on knee, waiting patiently for her to finish.]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
In truth, I fear I ken not what might prove harsher to the spirit, than what already hath been revealéd -- nor endured.  
  

Finrod: [dark irony]  
    
You can't? I wish I had so little imagination. --I can come up with several, without even trying.  
  
[to his uncle]  
  
You really needn't stay behind on our account -- this time either.  
  
[his father's lips tighten, and the two sons of Finwe exchange an awkward, half-wary, half-apologetic look.]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Nay, lad, will you not make introduction between the noble Luthien and we more distant kindred, before any preemptory dismissal?  
  

Finrod:  
    
A little late, isn't it? You could have taken a little time off from staring at the Gates and paid a courtesy call on her family, you know. I know it would been a terrible waste of your time, but at least you could have provided moral support when we had to explain how it was we weren't really Kinslayers. Trying to repair the damage from that took decades, and you know the fact that you were too busy to give any official statements did absolutely nothing to build confidence. I mean, at least Fingon did ap--  
  
[his family and friends are increasingly discomfited through this exchange of acrimony, regardless of who particularly is coming under fire at any given moment]  
  

Angrod: [pleading]  
    
\--Ingold, that's all old history, it doesn't matter now that we're dead-- isn't that what you're always saying?  
  

Finrod:  
    
And you're always saying I'm crazy and too soft for my own good. Shall I take a page out of your book then?  
  
[to Fingolfin]  
  
\--All I asked for was a small gesture of support today, just for you to lend your presence and weigh in on the side of the Edain -- I wasn't asking for any complex arguments, after all, just the loan of a little bit of that awe and respect your Deed commands even from the Powers, to assist me. --What is wrong with our family that we have to make an issue over ever single little thing?  
  
[the High King of the Noldor (in Beleriand) gives the High King of the Noldor (in Aman) a pained Look before answering his nephew:]  
  

Fingolfin: [heavy patience]  
    
You asked me, Finrod, to come before my wiser kinfolk in this ruined state, and challenge the gods once more by thus abetting you. Please, let us make no mistake of what it was you demanded of me, ere you mock me for making much of it.  
  

Finrod: [bland]  
    
So asking the Weaver to please consider the deeds of the Edain in closer detail -- is more difficult than hand-to-hand combat with the Lord of Fetters?  
  
[Fingolfin looks away with a still-more pained expression, and Finarfin's glance towards his elder brother is a little softer and more sympathetic; Nerdanel shakes her head a little, not approvingly.]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Kinsmen, can ye not contain such outbreak of strife yet a little at the least? What of poor Luthien here, that doth mourn amongst us e'en now?  
  

Luthien: [with a careless wave of the cup in her hand]  
    
Oh, go ahead and fight, it doesn't bother me one way or the other.  
  

Elenwe: [slight smile, distantly amused]  
    
'Tis most like to old times, is't not?  
  

Amarie:  
    
And naught learnt since!  
  

Fourth Guard: [aside]  
    
I hate politics.  
  
[he sits down leaning against Huan's flank and begins scratching the Hound's ribs as the latter thumps his tail twice in sympathy; several of his friends also settle down gloomily on the steps or floor nearby]  
  

Elenwe: [cool disbelief]  
    
Amarie, wherefore, deemst thou, thy House would fain have had thee set sights elsewhere than Indis' flowering, fair indeed though they be? Did not our example lesson thee enough, of the perilous vaunting of the House of Fin' --? Or judged thee thy lord might by mere will alone step free of all contention, as mine own did will it, most like his brother -- nay, more so--  
  
[giving Angrod and Aegnor a keen Look]  
  
\--in mood and temper than these younglings of his nearest blood, but still and yet they too are Noldor, and the flame of rule doth burn in them no less than in these others.  
  

Amarie: [sharply]  
    
Lesson me not, that art rebel and unhoused.  
  

Finarfin: [with a touch of sternness]  
    
Daughter, and thou pleasest--  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
No doubt but we're home again.  
  

Amarie: [extreme frustration]  
    
Nay, stands there none that dost not but presume to harry me, howsobeit here, else under Ezellohar's shade, else to Everwhite's pinnacle?! For what, I perforce wonder, did I bide here loyal, that meet with naught but rebuke, while law-scoff wayward thankless fools do warrant such tenderest concern?  
  

Finrod: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
That was what you stayed for, to be praised, then? And here I thought it was something nobler than that all along.  
  
[her expression suggests that it's a good thing her self-control is so strong -- or else he might swiftly find out what damages, if any, a living Elf's will might possibly inflict on a shade…]  
  

Elenwe: [to nobody in particular]  
    
Is any yet that still 'mazeth, that I should mine prefer mine own companioning to such kindred as do share these Halls with me perforce?  
  

Aegnor: [grimly]  
    
All right, brother, you've made your point, everyone here understands what you're trying to convey. --Several times over, in fact.  
  

Finrod:  
    
What?  
  

Nerdanel: [severe]  
    
Aye, 'tis ill thou dost thus to trifle with thy loved one's hearts and fearing.  
  
[Finrod looks up at them, bewildered]  
  

Finrod:  
    
What are you talking about? What point?  
  

Angrod:  
    
That -- volunteer statement of yours.  
  
[the Ten brace themselves, or try to look absent as possible without actually leaving]  
  

Ranger: [aside]  
    
Skirmish coming.  
  

Warrior: [replying in undertone]  
    
No, that we could deal with.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I wasn't making any statement.  
  

Angrod:  
    
You -- you weren't just trying to make them listen? Just raising your voice at council, so to speak? You--  
  
[he gives a worried glance towards Luthien, who is apparently oblivious to the discussion, absorbed in contemplating the decoration on the remembered Noldor vessel (which should look like a cross between a Grecian kalyx and the Armagh Chalice.)]  
  
\--really meant what you were saying to Lord Namo, you weren't just trying to make them pay attention?  
  
[Finrod gives his nearest relations a long, narrow Look -- there is some reflexive flinching in response]  
  

Finrod: [quietly]  
    
You doubt me, then?  
  
[pause]  
  
You don't know me well at all, do you?  
  
[he is looking at Aegnor now]  
  
You don't think that I consider the Followers fully as precious as we, or do you still think that I fear the unknown?  
  

Fingolfin: [mildly]  
    
I seem to recall, Finrod, that you particularly admonished me against my rashness during our traverse of the Helcaraxe, and advised me to take better heed to my following, while you and your sister took charge of that passage. Have you given up caution, altogether, then?  
  

Finrod: [shortly]  
    
I told you lots of things, uncle -- most of which you ignored -- over the past four-and-a-half-centuries. There's a difference between rushing in heedlessly and without preparation in the certainty that willpower and innate superiority shall, together with the justness of one's cause, carry one through despite lack of provisions, equipment, or proper information -- and taking a calculated risk, even when the odds are against one. But that's a somewhat-sophisticated distinction, I grant.  
  
[the onlookers wince]  
  

Fingolfin: [not getting angry, simply incredulous]  
    
You would really venture beyond this Circle, trusting to nothing more than these glimpses of insight which you think a true Vision, then?  
  

Luthien: [with a hiccoughing laugh, not raising her head]  
    
Of course he would. Just as of course Beren would refuse.  
  

Finrod: [steelly]  
    
Didn't I warn you -- Your Majesty \-- that I had seen your Doom awaiting you if things continued as they presently were, and specifically that I'd seen you dead at Morgoth's feet, and didn't you wave me away with the assertion that nobody really knew anything certain from the Sight, that the world was fully of glimpsed possibilities, and that it was more likely to follow if you did take our recommendations than if you didn't attack? You'd think people would perhaps give me a little bit of credit these days, wouldn't you?  
  
[his uncle tolerates the retort with a melancholy expression.]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
But surely thou dost not in truth believe that thy mother and father would not have thee to house, and gladly! What meanst thou, to say that naught awaiteth thee without these walls?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye, my children, I pledge that ne'er reproach, else blame, else mocking word, shall e'er escape my lips to shadow ye, and dare aver that nor thy mother as well should ever bespeak ye in anger, once we shall have bespoken her firstly.  
  
[silence -- Angrod and Aegnor won't look at him, or answer]  
  

Finrod: [frowning with displeasure]  
    
You're being irrational, you know, Father -- avoiding conflict with me simply because you've found out that my fate was a little more unpleasant than you'd imagined. It wasn't all that much worse than the Ice, you know. -- Certainly a lot shorter.  
  

Nerdanel: [chiding]  
    
Thou art passing cold, lacking in all sensibility it seemeth.  
  

Finrod: [still looking only at his father]  
    
No, I'm merely realistic. Sentimentality changes nothing of the facts. What difference do the particulars of Doom make to your judgement of the justice of it? Or the fact that I am your son -- except to indicate a partiality unfitting in a King?  
  
[Finarfin does not answer -- or look away, (though he is blinking rather hard). Fingolfin makes an an abortive gesture of consolation and support towards his little brother, breaking off the attempt with a wry headshake at his own insubstantial status.]  
  

Amarie: [to her spouse]  
    
Out on thee!  
  
[to Finarfin]  
  
I do comprehend full well wherefore the gods importune us so -- but why dost thou so wish the company of yon Shadow-souled mocker, Sire?  
  
[she turns her back on Finrod et al, folding her arms tightly, standing straight as a column. The Sea-Elf and Nerdanel both glance at her, and catch each other's attention inadvertently, exchanging understanding Looks. Elenwe shakes her head, smiling in a tolerant, knowing way which would seriously annoy her fellow Vanya if the latter were aware of it.]  
  

Third Guard: [to his colleague, fervently]  
    
\--I share your views on politics.  
  

Finarfin: [weary plea]  
    
Amarie, Amarie \-- set thy wrath 'gainst me, and thou must fix upon some target nigh to hand, if for naught else that I do thus presume to counsel thee by this request  
  

Angrod: [to Aegnor, but loudly]  
    
I can't understand why he's going on like that -- she's only saying the same kinds of things he said to us at Araman.  
  
[their father closes his eyes, starting to say something and stops]  
  

Fingolfin: [sharp]  
    
Children! You have no understanding of what sorrow and strain it is, to be a parent--  
  

Aegnor: [ice]  
    
No, and we won't, will we? We have our own troubles, uncle, which your generation seems incapable of grasping. It's much bigger now than just you and Father and Feanor fighting for Grandfather's affection and looking for affirmation from your kids when you couldn't get it from your parents--  
  

Teler Maid: [aside to the Captain, as it starts escalating]  
    
Can you not do something?  
  

Elenwe: [wryly, to Finrod]  
    
Nay, for none save thee, Ingold, in all these halls, had I come--  
  

Captain: [grim]  
    
Probably.  
  

Fingolfin: [daunting, to his nephews]  
    
Then being so much wiser, you should be as much more merciful upon your elders, should you not?  
  

Teler Maid: [urgent]  
    
Well, then--?!  
  
[overlapping]  
  

Captain: [hollowly]  
    
I expect I could make it worse. Family fights -- you know how they go--  
  

Angrod: [with a kind of grim satisfaction, to Aegnor]  
    
And the emotional blackmail starts, right on schedule.  
  
[the torc passes between them again.]  
  

Captain: [still aside to the Teler girl]  
    
I say something, they go for me, then he defends me, and -- Probably better not.  
  
[the Sea-elf doesn't answer, but keeps knotting up her braids worriedly, very unhappy at the strife.]  
  

Finarfin: [with a kind of helpless, open appeal to his eldest]  
    
Finrod, my wiseling, dost thou not ken, in thy heart's inmost flame, wherefore I unchilded do grieve most bitterly for my parting words against ye all, that are here eke that yet do remain beyond -- but bitterest of all for that I spake unto thee?   
  
[silence]  
  

Finrod: [coolly]  
    
Was I an utterly self-righteous and merciless little twerp at Araman, or was I not?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
In truth, even as was I, and no less, saving something the elder.  
  
[Finrod gives his father a doubtful Look, trying to find the hidden edge in the words.]  
  
\--Art so proud, mine eldest, that thou shouldst ne'er consent to rest 'neath others' roof, else rule, but deem't prison, howsoever freely given?  
  

Finrod: [pedantic]  
    
Well, Mandos strictly speaking should not be called a prison, since the purpose of a prison is not the good of--  
  
[the Elf-King only stares at his son, waiting for the answer -- he sighs and bows his head a little]  
  
No. I am not quite so proud. It might -- would be -- hard, indeed, but I'd manage it, somehow, if it were not for -- other considerations. But there's nothing for me outside these walls anymore.  
  
[dead silence]  
  

Aegnor: [narrow-eyed, voice dripping with sibling irony]  
    
\--Aren't you confusing yourself with me?  
  

Finrod: [very serious]  
    
I have nothing of my own to return to. Father's wish to have everyone happily home aside, my presence in Aman is both irrelevant and superfluous.  
  

Angrod:  
    
What are you talking about?  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
I have nothing to contribute, no useful skills, and none who needs my help Outside.  
  

Luthien: [looking up, tearstained]  
    
What are you talking about? Finrod, you -- you're -- that's one of the daftest things I've ever heard, which is saying a lot.  
  
[checks -- grumpily]  
  
\--Of all the things to bring away from Nargothrond, Celegorm's slang wasn't what I'd have picked -- regardless, it's still as silly as everyone here thinks.  
  

Ambassador.  
    
Indeed, all Beleriand would contradict you, Majesty. Your skills are undeniable--  
  

Finrod: [interrupting]  
    
\--And worthless. Here.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
But your mastery of governance and diplomacy--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Debatable. --And hazardous.   
  
[locking stares with his father -- with deliberate emphasis]  
  
I do not rule in Valinor. I will never contend for power with my kindred again.  
  
[the significance this has for all the present members of House Finwe is somewhat missing for the Belerianders]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
\--and strategy, and warfare--  
  

Finrod: [fighting a smile]  
    
Oh yes. That's going to make me no end popular in the Cities, won't it?  
  

Luthien: [knowingly, to her compatriot]  
    
Trust me, they're weird about it. They're not like us, not even the Noldor, no matter how enthusiastic they are for it -- perhaps all the more for that. It's as if they regarded all wine as suspect because someone once drank too much and lost control.  
  
[this bothers the Valinoreans and to a degree the returned Noldor as well, but only one responds with other than visible discomfort]
Amarie: [looking over her shoulder]  
    
Fie, such benighted thoughtlessness that recketh naught of the deep abhorrent wrong of bloodshed proveth ye e'en as I have said, O Princess of Shadows!  
  
[Huan makes an unhappy grumbling noise without moving, to which the Steward sighing nods agreement]  
  

Luthien: [cryptic]  
    
The Night was first…and it was ours first. If you've forgotten your birthright, I'm not ashamed to claim it still.  
  
[this time around, for whatever reason, Amarie decides not to continue the insult contest further]  
  

Finrod: [observing]  
    
You're going to get a crick in your neck, Amarie, talking like that.  
  

Luthien: [looking at him earnestly]  
    
But anyway, you've got all kinds of talents that don't have anything to do with running kingdoms or sieges. You can translate any language, you--  
  

Finrod: [wryly]  
    
In an essentially monolingual society--  
  
[his comrades look resigned -- to them this is not a new lament]  
  

Luthien:  
    
You're a musician -- an artist -- a scientist--  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--A dilettante, where the world has had four centuries and more to study uninterrupted whatsoever should be desired. Why do you think there are jokes about it? I could never steal the time away from my real work enough to master any skill, so indulged them all, and never finished one. Here \-- in whatever art you name, I shall be but an unskilled dabbler, a trifler, with no greatness compared to those who remained. There is no need for anything I could bring to Aman.  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien: [frowning, slowly]  
    
I think you're wrong.  
  
[he blinks at her blunt dismissal, rather taken aback by the brevity and to-the-point nature. Someone makes a sound of suppressed laughter from the ranks behind him, but it's lost in the sound of a canine sneeze.]  
  

Nerdanel: [giving her nephew an unimpressed Look]  
    
Hast not considered what measure these thy maundering dismal certitudes shall impress on thy fellow Dead, to so at one sweep lay waste unto all dreams and thoughts of homecoming, with yon depiction of no place where place doth 'wait them to be found in heart?  
  
[she gestures dramatically to the nearest shade, who happens to be Fingolfin's daughter-in-law]  
  

Elenwe: [peaceful]  
    
Nay, I have no concern that doth remain or thus or so, only I do bide the coming-hither of my love.  
  
[the living Eldar shudder a bit at that, if discreetly, and even some of her fellow shades find her complacency a bit unnerving.]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
What of your friends and followers, then? Have you no concern for their hopes, lad, to set such strictures on them as well?  
  

Finrod: [taut -- this has touched a nerve]  
    
In this I do not command them. Nor do I speak for them.  
  
[from where he is kneeling in attendance, the Steward half-turns to address the sons of Finwe, quick and dead]   
  

Steward: [coolly]  
    
For myself -- I had rather be serving a houseless Elf than to be King of all the living. --And I do speak for us all.  
  

Angrod: [terse, his arms folded]  
    
One would think that a true friend would rather try to dissuade another from such self-destructive behaviour.  
  

First Guard: [aside, unhappy]  
    
We would have. --Tried.  
  

Finrod: [low, but stern]  
    
Angrod -- enough.  
  
[troubled but now more-or-less docile, Angrod subsides. Generally, but looking at Amarie's set back]  
  
\--All that emptiness I foresee awaiting me, would yet be balanced -- more than balanced, as when an ingot of gold is laid in the pan counter-weighted by an ingot of tin, and crashes in its turn -- by one welcome.  
  
[Amarie turns quickly to face him, white-hot with fury]  
  

Amarie: [with a cutting gesture]  
    
Let thou not blame me -- nor let any others likewise -- for thy will, that thou wilt abide here! 'Tis thy pleasure -- as ever -- that thou dost fulfill!  
  

Finrod: [incredulous]  
    
My pleasure? Hardly.  
  
[he looks at his father and uncle before continuing with savage emphasis, equally to all of them]  
  
Those were our people that hour in chaos and ill-led. You didn't need me. They did.  
  
[to Amarie, sweetly]  
  
And you still don't need me, it's clear -- so what does it matter what I make of my death from here on?  
  
[to them all again]  
  
I won't subject myself to humiliation simply to ease the consciences of my kinfolk -- nor play the smiling fool Outside to ease your minds. As I have returned, I am \-- and you don't like it much. Well -- that's just too bad, I'm afraid.  
  
[Luthien gives her father's servant a piercing Look; there is a moment of pained equilibrium amid all those present of the House of Finwe, the prelude to the hurling of more recriminations, or self-recrimination, or both -- which are prevented by the actions of one on the periphery of the conflict, stepping in to restrain things (or actually, turning where he waits at the feet of the Princess and setting one hand on his sovereign's knee in a gesture not simply demanding of attentiveness but also evocative of fealty-giving]  
  

Steward: [level and forceful]  
    
My lord, your words are most ungracious, whatever the justification.  
  

Finrod:  
    
!?!  
  
[Finrod looks at him with some affront, but his friend is undaunted, and the King's glare softens, some of the defiance and hauteur going out of his shoulders, though he does not look away from his chief counselor]  
  
\--Yes.  
  
[he sighs]  
  
I should set a better example than I am given. And you--  
  
[keenly]  
  
Things are not well with you at all, are they?  
  
[the other cannot help but look up at his ex, who is watching him somberly (despite absently standing like a heron again)]  
  

Steward: [sadly]  
    
I fear it is as you say.  
  
[the Teler girl lets her hair fall forward over her face -- but doesn't vanish]  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
And I am consumed by my own troubles, forgetful of yours -- Edrahil, please take thought for yourself, and trust that I'll take heed for my obligations hereunto.  
  

Steward:  
    
In death no less than was my habit living, I find my peace best in the mastery of my duties.  
  
[his King looks away for a moment, then back with a rueful smile]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Then let this be the task I give to you: that you stay by me for the present, for my spirit's comfort. No errands for now -- let me lean upon you a little while longer, at least.  
  
[meaningfully, though only the Ten understand what he's talking about]  
  
I promise it will not be as dead weight, this time.  
  

Steward: [with a faint smile]  
    
Even that, until the Lord of Beor comes.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [looking at him with great intensity]  
    
You trust he will return, then?  
  

Steward:  
    
I have no doubt of the Beoring's intransigence.  
  

Finrod: [sighing]  
    
Then I'll share that hope too, whether you name it so or not. Sit here at my side for a while, and we'll wait together, if it please you, my friend.  
  
[he grips the other's wrist in a lingering clasp, before turning to his Sindarin kinswoman with an expression of focus and resolve; the Steward settles down on the next level, his own expression the politely-distant look of someone trying to stay attentive and not get lost in private regrets, leaning back against Finrod's knees with an Age-old familiarity devoid of presumption. From time to time his King reaches forward to set a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance -- but for which of them? Huan, convinced that someone that close has a duty to scratch his nose, starts nudging his arm until the desired attention is gained.]  
  

Finrod: [to Luthien]  
    
You know, you promised you'd tell me the whole story when we had a moment, and it rather seems as though an opportune moment has presented itself. I'd like to hear it straight out finally, in order, with all the gaps filled in, and not by rumours.  
  

Luthien: [with a watery smile]  
    
You're just trying to cheer me up and take my mind off worrying for Beren.  
  
[he smiles back sadly, squeezing her hand]  
  

Finrod:  
    
That as well.  
  

Luthien: [dry laughter]  
    
As long as it isn't just that. I've had enough of that to last me for ever!  
  
[those of the Ten who have not settled down on the steps of the dais do so now along with the Sea-elf, with all indications of interest. Finrod's relatives all look at each other awkwardly -- Nerdanel breaks the silence]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Nephew, what would ye have us about, while the twain of ye rehearse her tale, or wilt thou but say it mattereth not a whit to thee yet again?  
  
[he looks slightly embarrassed]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I'm sorry, Aunt 'Danel. I'm not entirely sure what is going on, and it is certainly not within my authority nor power to dismiss you, or command the staff to send you home. If you want to listen, by all means feel free to stay.   
  

Nerdanel: [raising one eyebrow]  
    
At least thou hast recalled thy manners to thee; 'tis better than--  
  
[looking narrowly at his siblings]  
  
\--some.  
  

Finrod: [abashed]  
    
I -- yes, it does come to the same thing. But I am at a loss, and it's very odd for me to have people going from railing at me to asking me what they ought to be doing.  
  
[his brothers visibly bite back comment]  
  

Finarfin: [bland innocence]  
    
So many these late-passing years a King, and art not yet used…?  
  
[his eldest just gives him an expressionless Look, which could hide anything from cold contempt to anger to an extreme effort not to share in the joke…]  
  

Finrod: [matter-of-fact, gesturing around them]  
    
We could make chairs, but it might not be prudent, and you'd probably get all twitchy. So I'm afraid all that I can offer you are these steps and the floor.  
  

Nerdanel: [agreeably]  
    
'Tis level, and passing clean.   
  
[she kneels down gracefully on the stone and waits, perfectly at home now, dividing her attention watching Luthien and friends and her own kindred, as the latter with much more social awkwardness, if not physical, find places not too close to any of each other, but still close enough to attend the tale-telling.]   
  

Luthien: [wiping her eyes once more]  
    
Where do you want me to start?   
  
[with a tiny laugh]   
  
At least I won't have to keep defending my sanity to you \--!   
  
[the crowded tableau looks rather like a shallow version of the Spanish Steps, minus the sunlight, the baroque scrollwork, and the cheerful atmosphere (though Nerdanel's sketch-pad and stylus would fit right in on a Roman plaza), as Luthien starts to recount how all this got started for a more-sympathetic cousin this time…]  



	50. Scene V.ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the special effects budget should be blown on the Taniquetil animation -- it has to be good, so that things are just alien enough to cause a momentary lag in comprehension, without leaving the viewer at a loss for what's happening.]

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project

* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

SCENE V.ii

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Shadowy Stair. Beren (looking very ghostly and indefinite here) slowly ascends the shallow steps with an earnest, determined look, looking always forward, not up or around. The stars reflect in the polished material of the staircase perfectly still, not moving as with vibration the way reflections in water on even a stone step would tremble, although they flicker as in the night sky. There is a richness and intensity to the darkness, so that it does not look flat-black, but rather as if it were composed of an infinite number of layers of blue.]  
  
[It is with a dawning surprise that the traveller realizes that he has come to the topmost stair, and stands on a flat terrace of indefinite dimension, like a still lake in a midsummer midnight. He looks around, slowly, frowning at the vertical lines that angle up from the periphery, faint glistening threads with rainbow gleams as the camera moves, like the embodiment of abstract geometrical concepts. ]  
  
[Then he looks up, and his jaw drops as we follow to see the Constellations, writ huge and throbbing overhead, the Swordsman with his jewelled scabbard, the Butterfly, the Western Eagle, and in the center of them all, -- the Sickle, while the oldest stars pulse more faintly all around them, as if it were a desert sky with no moon.]  
  

Beren: [gasping, completely without irony]  
    
\--Ah…Lady!  
  
[there is a momentary shift, as if the universe somehow were shaken -- but it is not Ea which changes, only the focus of the beholder (camera), so that the far-off stars are suddenly revealed to be very near at hand, burning ornaments on a vault of blue-black enamel -- or else of transparent crystal, so flawless that the Road of Stars shines through without reflection; there is no way for the eye to be sure. ]  
  
[The incomprehensible edges are facets of the prism-pillars which uphold the dome, the flat top of the ascent the floor of the Hall, the darkness all around not simply emptiness, but Space, defined and contained in ways almost beyond perception, so that one would have to walk carefully touching the edges to be sure what was support and what was between. Everywhere that there is light there is a faint rainbow effect, so that the sense is of white light that holds all colors within it, not white-and-black devoid of color, against the midnight-blue of the outer atmosphere.]  
  

Beren:  
    
I…  
  
[his voice fades into silence as he struggles to make sense of it -- it should be both a far simpler, more primitive vision of Infinity than anything in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and also more beautiful, and mind-boggling. The Hope Diamond, stared into for long silent minutes, is the feeling that the production artists should capture -- not glass, but darkness and light made liquid and cast into solid form, clear and cold and perfectly blue in the shadows, iridescent in the highlights.]  
  
[There is a sudden flash of white like a magnesium flare overhead, mirrored in the floor -- a comet? meteor? or soundless lightning? -- and he turns to follow its path across the dome, and freezes. The bolt of light rushes towards the farther side of the plateau, and comes to a stop in mid-air -- caught there, so it seems, until we realize that there are two figures there as well, seated on prismatic thrones, like an Egyptian statue of the God-King and Living Goddess carved not from basalt or alabaster but from living crystal, but in the Art-Nouveau Egyptienne style of Alphonse Mucha.]  
  
[Note: Most of the special effects budget should be blown on the Taniquetil animation -- it has to be good, so that things are just alien enough to cause a momentary lag in comprehension, without leaving the viewer at a loss for what's happening.]  
  
[ The white lightning, still scintillating in place, like burning metal, has come to fasten on the King's wrist -- in its angular pyrotechnic glare there should still be some discernable abstraction of sentience, of pointed intent, directed at its Lord.]  
  
[as Beren stands there speechless, the living fireball twists and takes off again, returning as it came, and he turns involuntarily to follow its flight-path -- it passes through the dome-perimeter somehow, whether through an invisible window, or otherwise, and as it intersects the star-space it unfolds what are definitely widening wing-shapes, still made at this point of white light and glittering sparks before vanishing below the horizon-level of the hall. ]  
  
[The Mortal shade turns back, still mute with awe at witnessing an Eagle in its native environment, to see that the Starqueen and her Consort have risen in greeting. (Though CGI, voices and original acting should be provided for the sovereign Valar by two of the great classic performers of the silver screen, Madeleine Carroll (Princess Flavia, The Prisoner of Zenda) and Frederic March (Jean Valjean, Les Miserables).]  
  
[simultaneous]  

Varda:  
Manwe:  
    
Welcome, --brother.

* * *

_to be continued..._


	51. Notes - part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

* * *

Beren's demand for answers, and The Meaning of Life is, of course, a re-envisioning of the climactic scenes of another work of literature — _The Book of Job_. It also comes completely out of the _Silmarillion_ : if his words are familiar, that's because he's invoking, somewhat consciously, but even more so without conscious recollection, Fëanor's words to the Powers at the Darkening, and voicing as well the unconfronted doubts of Bereg, which continued to simmer even among the faithful Edain, voiced in later generations by Andreth and Morwen. That the dangers in demanding direct revelation from the gods come not from the likelihood of being zapped with a thunderbolt for "impiety" but in the problem of not being able to cope with that much unshielded creative power can be found in myths like that of Semele, or the accounts of seers being left catatonic after encounters with the Divine; that the consequence of getting what you demand from the reluctant gods can be a cautionary tale shows up in Aesop, and elsewhere. "He who asks questions cannot escape the answers," goes an old African proverb, tellingly.

(If it isn't screamingly clear why he's managed to finally set off Námo's fuse, after all this time — and why Oromë is (barely) resisting the urge to belt him one — I'm afraid it will have to wait a little while before everything is made clear.)

* * *

  



	52. Notes - part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

* * *

**vi.**  
The Sea-Mew has been part of the story, as a ghostly presence (so to speak) since Act II was begun. She is, of course, the one obliquely referred to in the exchange re farewells between Finrod and Edrahil after the Council and coup; as a member of Olwë's tribe her situation allows for a not-entirely-disinterested outsider's perspective on the dynastic struggles of the House of Finwë. I meant for her to provide a reminder of the kinship connections between the three clans of the Eldar, and to illustrate the problems of division and strife which far predated the Kinslaying and attitudes which so ably were exploited by Melkor which allowed that event to happen. I also was strongly caught by the idea of someone not knowing that a loved  
one had been caught up in the Kinslaying until their reunion in the Halls of Mandos, and the theme of good intentions rendered meaningless which is summed up so powerfully in the line, "all good deeds were made in vain," through the undercutting of Edrahil's spiritual renunciation and selflessness in assuming her to be happy — and better-off — without him, forever, by that revelation.

Quite late in the day, I realized that I had created an OFC who also happens to be the romantic interest of a canon character… (And now yet another layer of significance is added to the word-game towards the end of Scene II.)

* * *

The documented envy of the Secondborn aroused by Melkor in the Noldor plays a significant role throughout this scene —as it did in the history of the Eldar. More on this later.

* * *

Beren's blaming himself for everything both follows from his self-castigating remarks in the Lay fragments, and is a response to the criticisms made by readers on Usenet and elsewhere in this vein — Really? All right then, let's take this to its logical extreme…

* * *

**vii.**  
This section incorporates a small homage to Fabergé, whose studios managed to create both the tacky and the sublime, not infrequently combining both into the tackily sublime (or sublimely tacky), such as the comic or realistic animals crafted from the precise shades of gemstones to match their natural coloring.

* * *

**viii.**  
Helka & Ringil were the two pillars of the original Lamps, sometimes described as being made of ice, which Melkor subverted and destroyed after successfully infiltrating Arda during the distractions of Tulkas and Nessa's wedding party. This fact gives Fingolfin's crystal sword the nature of a sacred symbol, named in honor of that long-destroyed supporter of Light. (However, they are also described in terms which make it seem as if they were mountains. Before trying to determine which they were — and I am not being mischievously Elvish here merely — one has to consider the question of what matter would vessels containing enough energy to both light a continent, and to destroy vast sections of it when released by catastrophic failure, be constructed of — let alone be supported on, when created by godlike beings of superhuman intelligence and ability capable of "singing" a material universe out of nonbeing and potentiality into physical actuality? It's likely the answer would be as incomprehensible to us as the first alien description of a functioning hyperdrive will be:

"All composed of supercooling micro-accelerated particulate fields with a reversed matrix of indented parallel wavelengths, see?"

"—Ah. Yes. Of course." _—It works by magic—really advanced magic…_

* * *

Beren endeavoring to tell Finarfin what his kids have been up to is not included merely for humorous effect, but also to point up the sheer magnitude of the task, and the difficulty of trying to convey events to someone interested in them, when both parties have only partial knowledge of both the circumstances and the players, and no direct experience of the events at all.

* * *

"Going to stake out a realm" — a not-so-kind reference to their shared pasts as would-be colonists in Beleriand and the hubris of the Noldor invoked as well as inflamed by Fëanor's rousing words after the Treeslaying.

* * *

"Fly pride, quoth the peacock" — ObRef to _The Comedy of Errors,_ an exquisite farce rife with mistaken identity, verbal and physical humour, and rhyme. This expression is the equivalent of "the pot calling the kettle black," due to the legendary vanity of peafowl — which has some basis in observed fact, as it is possible to keep peacocks in the open but in a central area by hanging a mirror outside: the males spend inordinate amounts of time displaying before this tireless rival, just as Siamese fighting fish will.

* * *

The tall and beautiful Nürnburg-style harps often seen in medieval art are, according to archaeologists, fairly fragile, extant examples of the instrument often showing breaks in the neck that were repaired in its  
original useful lifetime. Edrahil's travel-harp should be imagined more like the Irish harps, such as the one famously called Brian Boru's. Aegnor is playing nastily on old insecurities, in a reversal of the usual direction of snobbery, invoking the superior innate talents of the Sea-taught Teler at music, versus the Noldor skill at the "objective" arts of metal and stone working.

* * *

That there was strong friendship as well as kinship between the two sets of brothers is attested in "The Quenta," _HOME: Shaping,_ where it is remarked that Angrod and Aegnor were close friends with the sons of Fëanor (and not merely in agreement with their father about the Return.) Moreover, if Angrod and Aegnor were friends and longtime neighbors with Celegorm and Curufin, both in Aman and in East Beleriand, Aegnor is bound to have known Huan pretty well. And vice versa.

* * *

The incidents, er, surrounding the fountain hearken back to the discussion in Act II regarding mortal forms of humour before the Council. The constant references to water, and employment of it for various purposes, have a deeper meaning (sorry!) and while on the one hand reflecting simply geology and personal experience — I live in a land of old mountains and bedrock, and driving along the road it is possible to see the fresh water welling through and pouring down the surfaces of the granite cliffs, (which in the winter form most dramatic columns and sheets of ice) and every quarry becomes a tarn without constant pumping-out, because the water is there beneath the earth and must come through somehow — it also refers to the water-symbolism omnipresent in the Arda mythos and the immense (though hidden, patient, and subversive) power of the Lord of the Deeps.

* * *

Regarding Beren's challenge to Aegnor not to walk away from their issues — avoidance does seem to be a hallmark of the Exiles' way of dealing with things, given events both subsequent and prior.

* * *

"Tree toads" — an ObRef to some actual Fabergé artworks, crafted of gemstones. ([This  
Russian art history site](http://srv.stu.neva.ru/Faberge/history.htm) has a photograph of [one of the Fabergé flowers](http://srv.stu.neva.ru/Faberge/img/daffodil.htm), a life-size pheasant's-eye narcissus set in a vase of rock-crystal, filled with rock-crystal water.)

* * *

"Thargelion" — the joking about "mountain passes" and "rolling countryside" derives from the following Elvish linguistic associations:

súma: hollow concavity, bosom, i.e., cleavage; the equation of territorial elevations with female breasts transcends culture and language (as seen in the range from Scotland, "The Paps," to the New World's "Uncanoonuc," which by local legend memorializes an ancient Abnaki noblewoman) so I have extended the parallel to Elven cultures as well. (But without the attendant human self-consciousness.)

palúre: the surface of the land, as in the expression "the bosom of the earth" (equated with the English root "fold" as in Westfold) and the source of an alternate name of Yavanna, Palúrien.

* * *

"Rank hath its privilege," always stated in such archaic form, is a saying eternally current to describe the inequities of the military, though a modern acronym has of course been constructed from it, RHIP. I have no idea how old it is or what the original source: like _Greensleeves_ , it's always referred to as just "old."

* * *

"see," "perceive" etc. — there is a technical problem for metaphysicians in the fact that the words we are obliged to use to describe non-physical situations, and which are used universally so far as I can tell, regardless of language, all come from physical situations. "Understand," "back up,"  
"past," "grasp" — all of these terms with their directional or action sources, are used by analogy — yet so automatically that this fact can be itself  
difficult to realize. Given that we are physical entities, cannot be otherwise, and the signal lack of success of projects in the past century to create new philosophical languages devoid of any confusion or overlapping of terms, I suspect this is inherent to corporeal sentients (though of course this cannot be checked until we encounter an alien sentient race similar enough for us to communicate with) — but would not be the natural case for a group of naturally-immaterial telepathic entities for whom even language is a makeshift invention used for dealing with the material world and the corporeal creatures who inhabit it.

* * *

Both the equine and canine dragging of logs comes from Primary World experiences, both firsthand and secondhand. (It could be that I've only known some very eccentric horses, but several people have recounted tales of dogs mysteriously drawn to hauling objects nearly as large as themselves, apparently for the sheer challenge of it. James Thurber, American humorist and dog lover, had one who tried to bring home abandoned furniture found in alleyways — in the middle of the night, naturally!)

* * *

The world of espionage, and how much of it depends on not standing out, and as well on the fact that people generally don't tend to question, or even to notice things, that are outside their own interests, is quite fascinating — as are the small, dumb little things that historically have given away agents, many of which seem due more to chance (favorable or evil, depending on one's perspective) than to any systematic investigative or watch efforts. Former agent John LeCarre does a good job of conveying this in his novels, but other examples from the news include the story of the Zimmerman Telegraph in WWI, the use of the Brompton Oratory (a High Baroque church in London) as a drop-point for microfilms in the late 1980s, and pop singer Josephine Baker's experiences working for the Resistance in WWII.

* * *

"small people" — I do hope that all readers would have guessed who the Apprentice is by now! More on his presence later — but recall that it is said in _Silm._ that he learned patience and pity of Nienna, — who in turn is said to spend most of her time counselling the inhabitents of the Halls of Mandos.

* * *

Edain: "Now Atani, the Second People, was the name given to Men in Valinor in the lore that told of their coming; but in the speech of Beleriand that name became Edain, and it was there used only of the three kindreds of the Elf-friends." _(Silm.,_ "Of The Coming of Men into the West.")

* * *

"wanted to be an Eagle" — not only an ObRef to later events, but intended to point up both the striking affinity of all three independent Immortal agents: both Huan in the First Age and Mithrandir in the Third work together with the Lords of the Eagles in their complicated efforts to influence the destiny of Arda for the better. (It also is a play on the not-uncommon wistful imaginings of being a fighter pilot or pioneering aviator, which (as C.S. Lewis once used in analogy) is very different in reality from the romantic ideas of it. Thorondor and his family also have jobs to do, as well as lives to lead, and despite being autonomous in the field, can't simply give up their duties of trying to watch Morgoth's activities, watch over Gondolin, and report back to Taniquetil in order to go exploring somewhere off south, say.)

 

It also serves to point up the fact that the Ainur chose what they were going to be in Arda, and when they were going to join in. Not everyone was interested in making Eä at once, and not everyone arrived at the same time once the world was made. The Ainur aren't regimented, despite the urges of fans to organize them so: the Timeless Halls aren't Orwellian in nature. Power and authority are fluid, and come as much from within as from any Eru-conferred roles. Recall (since "Ainulindalë" is a bit long to retype, I haven't put it all here, but I commend rereading it) that the only Valar whose status as such we actually see taking place in the story are Melkor and Tulkas, who end up exchanging places. Melkor  
opts out of a universe he can't control; Tulkas shows up out of nowhere, starts slugging, and becomes the new member of the core leadership group. The Song begins slowly, with a lot of "tuning-up" — that is, each Ainu must discover his or her own voice — and this takes place very slowly for some, and quicker for others, and it is never rushed by the One nor  
is self-knowledge forced on any of the Powers-to-be — and then from that, awareness of each other, and then the delight of small spontaneous jam sessions slowly grows into a comprehension of Music on a grand scale, and the potential for something really spectacular…

This is actually somewhat abridged from the original MS, which is available  
in _HOME:Shaping,_ "The Quenta," and has a lot more of the interpersonality of the Ainur in the Before-Time worldbuilding. There it's remarked that  
Melkor's music was forceful, though chromatically dull, and had the effect of either drowning out the quieter voices or leading them to follow his  
dominant monotonous tune — in fact, the whole story is very resonant to anyone with any experience of playing in groups of various sizes. The idea of each performer learning to make his or her own music, not being forced into "the box", and this being the foundation for building the symphony, attuned to the strengths of the individual soloists, is idyllic and utopian, (though not impossible when considering celestials at play) but it also does reflect the reality of many successful groups whose sound  
is utterly unique and yet which changes over time as new members enter and old ones depart, and such spontaneity and individuality is also the hallmark of such folk groups as jazz ensembles, swing bands, Celtic and Cajun "sessions," medieval and renaissance consorts, and innumerable parallel  
ethnic traditions from around the world. br>  
Except then there's a rebellion, and the woodwind section leader wants everyone to play his improvisation as if it were the only possible  
elaboration on the given line, and manages to convince most of the section to join in his vision of how the symphony should go, and gets a crew playing  
"Twinkles" very, very loudly on rackets (industrial-strength renaissance kazoos) — and whether you want to or not, it's very hard sometimes  
to stick with your own line if you have a loud, piercing voice right next to you, and especially if they tend to do the line wrong-but-easy…

I've also had the personal advantage of observing different conducting  
styles over the past dozen years, from the obsessed, manically-up-tight control freak whose band resembles nothing so much as a pen of deer-in-headlights trapped behind their music stands, to the completely indiscriminating, approving-of-everything leader who benignly waves the baton over a cacophony which the discerning audience, after much struggle, may finally be able to identify without recourse to the programme — to the generally  
laid-back, affirming director who makes sure the timid people get solos and aren't abandoned to finger silently or whisper for fear of making mistakes,  
and lets people improvise and brings those variations into the final version if they work with the piece as a whole, and doesn't leap all over someone who mangles a key phrase by accident — but doesn't hesitate to step in and address the issue when timing gets out of control or someone just won't stop adding in excessive tremolo fter repeatedly being advised that it isn't appropriate to gargle on every note…and maybe gives that grand solo not to the metronome-perfect ten-year student, but to the two-year neophyte, still a little rough around the edges, a little uncertain, who leaps in with fiery enthusiasm and brings the piece to life.

* * *

Tirion: this brief portrait of the "present-day" capital of the Noldor derives from _Silm.,_ "Of Eldamar," and serves to remind the reader, as well as the characters, of that wider world out there, and the context of all actions, events, and personalities, even in Aman.

The symbolism of the odd task described is I hope obvious, and comes from two very different rituals I am aware of, on vastly-separate parts of this earth: the feast of Divali, in India, w herein tiny clay lamps,  
about 3 cm tall, are lit and placed along the edges of window-sills and rooftops, filling the towns with a warm golden glow far beyond what such a tiny flame would seem capable of generating, singly or in groups; and the kindling and exchanging of the Paschal flame in Roman rite Catholic churches during the Easter vigil. The style of the task, and all others implied or related, comes from the two mythic examples I am aware of in which a high-ranking female celestial has the tutelage of an earnest young male whose enthusiasm is not always equal to the study; one of which may be found in the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other in Chinese epic literature. (More on these parallels later.)

* * *

"witless and redeless" were Huan's actual words to Beren, as given in LL1, Canto XI, when he berates him for dashing off in this crazy, ill-advised way that is bound to get him killed, or worse.

* * *

The working-songs of Dorthonion are an idea inspired in part by the Scots Gaelic songs of this nature which I have heard sung, which like such songs all over the world are used to make easier and more mentally-interesting the boring repetetive tasks of agriculture and materials preparation, and also from the English tradition of change-bell ringing, in which complex mathematical patterns are played, and may be sung by the bell-ringers in practices or where bells are unavailable, and which ideally all return to the same original note simultaneously — something I've heard once for real, and a very eerie, impressive experience it was. (Change-ringing is prominently featured in what many consider to be Oxonian Dorothy Sayers' best mystery novel, _The Nine Tailors.)_

* * *

melisma: an ancient musical term meaning "honey-sweet," referring to a single syllable being run up and down across many notes. (A well-known example is the _gloria_ refrain of the carol "Angels We Have Heard On High.")

* * *

**ix**  
The question as to whether or not Lúthien could have messed with Beren's mind — and would have been so tempted — seems inevitable to me, given her efforts to convince him by lawful means…and the prior and subsequent events where her willpower and strength of purpose to protect Beren enabled her to befuddle and overwhelm a lesser demon, a greater demon, and the archfiend of Arda himself. The incentive is unquestionable, the ability equally so — put them together with Galadriel's words in Lórien  
concerning the difficulty of coercing and otherwise swaying minds, and the temptation to do so for the good of those individuals, and their shared familial history, and the question of the moral right to use "magic" to push people into doing the right and safe thing for their own sakes inevitably starts becoming something more than an abstract debate between friends and relatives late at night over the wine-cups on the terrace…

As to why she wouldn't have done so, despite inclinations and ability — see Act III for likely reasons.

* * *

  
**x.**  
Huan: the Lord of Dog's role, and his Doom as one of the Noldor by virtue of following the sons of Fëanor, is something that (quite evidently) has fascinated me — as noted before, I do not concur with Michael Martinez' stated belief that had Tolkien only done further revisions of the Geste, he would have made it less "fantastic," ore "naturalistic," and done away with the figure of the giant talking dog. Not only is there no evidence of this — Huan being present from the outset and in each further revision gaining an expanded role rather than a reduced — but in a world where there are also giant talking demon-wolves, and giant talking seraphic eagles, and Green Men with sacred charges, and sentient horses, and sentient trees, one more non-humanoid sentient demi-divine character is not going to strain a belief already given to the Ardaverse. There are many, many parallels between Huan's role in the Geste and the deeds of Gandalf in the Third Age, beyond the fact that both of them are known as "grey"; the fact that there is a prophecy surrounding him makes him part of a grand tradition of doomed characters in our history as well as Arda's; and his particular fate, entangling him in the Doom of the Noldor, and the ethical dilemmas of his conflicted loyalties make him one of the great tragic heroes of the legend.

—Who just happens to be a dog as well.

One of the reasons I have made Huan so very doggish is that he is, even in the leadership role and narrow time frame in which we get to see him during the Geste. (This should not surprise, given the authentically-doggy personality of Garm, that canine Sancho Panza, in _Farmer Giles of Ham.)_ Throughout the Lay, Huan enjoys his work, hunting the Werewolves of the Enemy with a gusto and enthusiasm which owners of working animals (not simply hunting hounds) will well recognize; he is eager to do what he thinks should be done, as the comment in the Lay mentioned in the last Act notes, running ahead and looking back to see what's keeping his master; he is perceptive, which even ordinary dogs are, of the strains and stresses between his people, and easily depressed by it; but his affections are not given or withheld in accordance with his owner's priorities — also very canine  
behaviour. His creative interpretation of commands like "Stay!" is all too familiar to any dog-owner, and his protective behaviour and autonomous intelligence while in advance of, in very much in line with real experiences of Newfoundlands and other large, loyal breeds of dog told not simply in legend, like that of Gelert and the hound of Odysseus, but also in fact.

 

"You do not ride Shadowfax: he is willing to carry you — or not. If he is willing, that is enough. It is then his business to see that you remain on his back, unless you jump off into the air." _(LOTR:TTT,_ "The Palantir")

There are also interesting parallels between Gandalf's steed, and the Lord of Dogs, who understands spoken language, and is so proud and unique that his carrying of Lúthien is a matter of some amazement in the chronicles, but nevertheless remains one of the _kelvar_ in his daily life. Like the Lord of the Eagles, who is unashamedly a Large Bird of Prey who makes no bones about snacking on stray cattle when opportunity presents itself, despite the armed objections of their owners _(The Hobbit)_ , this nobler kinsman of Garm is also _mirroanwë_ — a full incarnate, who abides by the rules of Earth even when he transcends them by virtue of his nature; and unlike Sauron he cannot "cheat" and escape death by morphing into another shape: every time he fights in defense of his friends is potentially the last time, until he meets his Wolf and walks that road alone. —Which is also not unlike the situation of a certain Maia in the distant future.

* * *

Q-P shifts: one of the hallmarks of the linguistic changes wrought by time and geographical separation among the Eldar, this is in our world found in the different branches of Indo-European, and can be seen very clearly in the diverging words for "horse" where the Latin is "equus," the Greek "hippos" and the Celtic horse-goddess is named Epona.

* * *

**xii.**  
Thingol's Sight warning him against humans before the coming of the Secondborn and leading him to forbid entry to all mortals, even to Finrod's servants, is described in _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men Into the West," — along with Melian's private prophecy to Galadriel that one of the Bëorings will do so regardless.

* * *

The problem of the Elves going to Valinor in the first place is a complicated one: Ulmo thinks it's a terrible idea, and his conviction is the Author's, as revealed both throughout the text in the embedded (if subtle) commentary and the outcomes of the decision to bring them to Aman — and "outside the fiction," in various letters of JRRT. But at the same time, hindsight is always perfect, and the reality of making decisions based on what is presently known and likely based on that known information and past experience is never simple. And the desire to keep keep children safe and prosperous, to help one's friends and loved ones, is in itself good — and fraught with perils. "Call no man happy until he is dead," was the Greek sage Solon's advice on trying to assess "success" in someone else's life, meaning that until the full story of someone's life has unfolded, what is a good situation and who is fortunate, or happy, cannot be determined from the outside.  
How many millionaires have looked "happy" until their bubble bursts, revealing fraud and crime, marital strife, spiritual emptiness and substance abuse?

 

In the same way, what is a "good" decision or an imprudent one, cannot always easily be decided without considering the circumstances at the time each judgment call is made. This too is presented by the Professor in the course of the story, and while readers tend to oversimplify, one recurring theme in _Silm._ is that every action has both good and bad consequences. (Like Finwë's remarriage, for one.) Consider one alternative history of Arda: the Powers return to Middle-earth and remain there with the Eldar. Morgoth comes up for parole, concealing his malice, and successfully incites division and rebellion among the Elves. When his misdeeds are exposed (in whatever form it should take in this timeline) and he flees, he doesn't have anywhere near as far to go, and all his secret stash of superweapons  
(i.e. Balrogs) are ready for instant recall to go up against the forces of the Ainur presently dwelling on this side of the Sea.

The War of Wrath takes place centuries earlier in a fully-inhabited Middle-earth, on the eastern side of the Blue Mountains, with the same havoc that previous battles between gods and demigods always result in, like stray mountain-ranges and sinking rifts, and the Eldar are for all intents and purposes wiped out — along with the Dwarves, and Men as yet unborn. Endor is split into two new continents, Beleriand to the West and on the other side of a wide mediterranean sea, the remnant portion beyond the Misty Mountains, across which the handful of traumatized survivors  
are scattered. Eriador down to Isen no longer exists. The Gap of Rohan is the Gulf of Rohan leading up to Anduin, Fangorn an Everglades, Rohan a Camargue — except that there isn't any population left to give those areas names. All of civilization, and potential civilization, being in one restricted area, nothing of future history happens in any way resembling the known timeline of Arda. There's no Belegost, no Nogrod, no Long Peace, no Edain, no Gondolin — and no Aman as we know it; no cultural and material reserve to rebuild a Númenor after the Terrible Battle, so there's no Mordor, no Gondor, no Erebor, and also no Shire. Nothing happens as it would otherwise have unfolded.

—Would this have followed, if the Eldar had not removed in part to Valinor? No way of telling. Could it have happened? The maps say yes.

* * *

Remarks concerning the futility of keeping the future existence of the Secondborn classified forever are a reference to the alternate story of Galadriel's wishing to go East to explore even before the Darkening _(UT),_ which whether considered apocryphal or not, is nevertheless in keeping with the long-standing tradition that Finrod, while not hungering for power and dominion, was nevertheless also lured by the thought of far-off lands to explore, and can be taken to indicate that such a return movement for benign reasons would eventually have come forward in Valinorean society, regardless of the Silmarils. The _palantiri_ are of course one of the improvements in scrying technology mentioned in the argument. The non-release of this information, and its leakage by Melkor, was one of the main factors in creating the rift between the Noldor and the Valar (and everyone else in the world, ultimately.)

* * *

**xiii.**  
Storytelling: this scenelet is devoted to the problems of how and when does information get from one place to another, and what effect does it have on those who receive it. It doesn't just transmit itself, magically, though we tend to feel that way given the amount of uncredited, generalized information to which we are exposed from an early age through school and the media. But intelligence has to come from somewhere — or rather, someone — and at particular times, and through particular real routes, and it doesn't all arrive at the same rates, nor is it known to all persons everywhere at all instants, and in the same degrees, and the problems of bias are not simply that of ideology, but of perspective, access, and interests. This is on the one hand, the problem of history, and the honest historian, and on the other hand the problem of anyone who has to make command decisions in any area, based on what is currently known.

(It's also an homage to _LOTR_ generally, and _TTT,_ "Flotsam and Jetsam" specifically, where the telling of tales itself is as integral to the story as the recounting of the adventures themselves.)

* * *

The idea that the years between Maedhros' capture and rescue by Fingon, a time of rivalry and strain between uneasy neighbors-across-the-lake, might have contained other efforts at negotiating with or spying on the Enemy is entirely mine (but the Noldor of the followings of Fingolfin and Finrod had to be actively pursuing any number of political options during that time in which they recuperated from the Crossing). However the fact that the Fëanorians' treaty was not attempted in good faith and that both sides meant to ambush the other and take hostages, but Morgoth sent the big guns and won, is a long-standing part of the _Silmarillion,_ as is the fact that Turgon's group assimilated first and fastest into the native Sindar population.

(This, combined with his early removal from the general landscape of Beleriand had the interesting effect of making Gondolin bilingual when Quenya was banned in the world outside: the Noldor, Sindar and "Gray-Noldor" of his domain being already one united people, no special stigma was attached to the language of Aman, regardless of whether or not the news of Thingol's prohibition ever reached them before Aredhel's return. Which in turn had ramifications for the subsequent history of Middle-earth, in that there was a significant portion of those few who escaped the fall of Beleriand who possessed and were at ease with the ancient knowledge, thus aiding in preserving what little did survive and bequeathing it to Númenor.)

* * *

Doriath: I wished here to point up several things, one of them being the immense age and power of the forest, something that could be as daunting to Elves as to mortals, (recall that in _LOTR:TTT,_ Legolas — a Wood-elf even — is intimidated somewhat by Fangorn) which is owing to the accellerated growth it receieved from the presence of one of the Powers of growth and healing. (Nan Elmoth's shadow and powers of holding also are attributable to the fact that it was the place where Melian stayed during her visit to Beleriand, and where for long years she and Elu Thingol stood lost in each other's dreams.) Another fact is that it was, indeed, a Long Peace — that we only see it by and large in the moments of crisis, for as the chroniclers of _Silm._ note, stories are most interesting when things are awful and chaotic. Another point is the parallel between Doriath in the First Age and before, and Lothlórien in the Third Age, both in its political role and function in the War, and in its internal arrangements. It's possible to add to the picture of Doriath at peace by studying the realm governed by those who learned ruling there — that is, the images of Lórien in _LOTR:FOTR._ (One element of which, it may be recalled, is the coming to flower of an unlikely friendship.)

* * *

Ingold: being Finrod's _amilessë_ , or matronym, it's not impossible that he would be best known among his mother's people thus.

* * *

  
Galad(h)riel: that her name, meaning "maiden crowned with a bright garland" & referring to her hair worn braided and pinned round her head to keep it out of her way during sports events, was a gift to her from Celeborn and that in this Sindarin form it was sometimes identified with the word for "trees" by her own people comes from _UT_. This punning equation would surely have occurred to a natural linguist, and an older sibling wouldn't be too daunted to make a joke out of it no matter how proud this youngest Prince of Finarfin's scions might be…

* * *

Celeborn: the silver hair of Galadriel's husband described in _LOTR:FOTR,_ "The Mirror of Galadriel", is a particular trait of Lúthien's father's family, one which he shares with Finrod's mother Eärwen, and comes to him through his grandfather Elmo, the brother of Elwë and Olwë about whom nothing else is recorded. (It is also said in _HOME_ that Nimloth, who married the son of Beren and Lúthien and was also killed by the sons of Fëanor, was Celeborn's niece, the daughter of his brother Galathil.)

* * *

When exactly did Galadriel and Celeborn leave Doriath and go East? No precise time-frame is ever given, and many readers assume that they were present during the events of the Geste and afterwards. I think this is implausible for a great many reasons, geopolitical and psychological as well as textual — and there is textual warrant for my supposition: she tells the Fellowship _(LOTR:FOTR,_ "The Mirror of Galadriel") that they came to this part of Middle-earth "long" before the Cities of Beleriand fell. If Galadriel considers it a long time, it probably wasn't just a decade or two. And this makes sense given both the established story of the War, that they would have left during the Long Peace, not while east Beleriand was in chaos and being overrun, and their friends and relatives in danger, but would have gone on a well-equipped, well-prepared, sizeable expedition.

One indication of why (beyond, that is, the lure of distant far off lands and strange peoples which she shared canonically with her eldest sibling) is given in the varied sketches from _UT,_ in which it is noted that they took a company, containing no small number of Noldor followers as well, beyond the mountains because it seemed to her dangerous to keep themselves penned up in the subcontinent, all one's eggs in one basket so to speak, and that they needed to spread out more: a forewarning of danger, vaguer than the ones her brother and cousin received, perhaps borne only of her own strategic understanding — but it's also certainly possible that she too received some form of message of her own while in Doriath. Ulmo was a particular friend of Thingol and Melian, and the Girdle was extended so as to enclose a section of Sirion within its boundaries, for the purpose of maintaining that contact between them. I don't say it did happen, but it could have.

* * *

"magic" — if Galadriel, who has had a wide experience of the chaotic realm of Middle-earth crossing three Ages of the world, has a hard time determining in her own mind exactly what mortals are thinking of when they use the word, it's guaranteed to be even less comprehensible to the Valinorean Eldar. (It's also an opportune way for Beren to get a little of his own back in the verbal combat department, needling his friends about things they don't know how to begin to explain.)

* * *

"Green Throne" — this outdoor seat of authority reflects old stories of European kings holding court at the foot of oak trees, but Thingol's place of power is at the base of the tree traditionally sacred to the Lady.

"But Thingol marvelled, and he sent  
for Dairon the piper, ere he went  
and sat upon his mounded seat—  
his grassy throne by the grey feet  
of the Queen of Beeches, Hirilorn,  
upon whose triple piers were borne  
the mightiest vault of leaf and bough  
from world's beginning until now.  
She stood above Esgalduin's shore,  
where long slopes fell beside the door,  
the guarded gates, the portals stark

of the Thousand echoing Caverns dark."

These lines from LL1, Canto IV, herald Daeron's first betrayal, and Lúthien's first impassioned defense of Beren, as Thingol seeks to discover the reason behind the "spell of silence" that the great musician's jealousy has cast over Doriath. It is not, I think, coincidental that Oromë is mentioned in the lines which follow:

Then Thingol said: 'O Dairon fair,  
thou master of all musics rare,  
O magic heart and wisdom wild  
whose ear nor eye may be beguiled,  
what omen doth this silence bear  
What horn afar upon the air,  
what summons do the woods await  
Mayhap the Lord Tavros from his gate  
and tree-propped halls, the forest god  
rides his wild stallion golden-shod  
amid the trumpets' tempest loud,  
amid his green-clad hunters proud,  
leaving his deer and friths divine  
and emerald forests? Some faint sign  
of his great onset may have come  
upon the Western winds, and dumb  
the woods now listen for a chase  
that here once more shall thundering race  
beneath the shade of mortal trees.  
Would it were so! The Lands of Ease  
hath Tavros left not many an age,  
since Morgoth evil wars did wage,  
since ruin fell upon the North  
and the Gnomes unhappy wandered forth.  
But if not he, who comes or what?'  
And Dairon answered: 'He cometh not  
No feet divine shall leave that shore,  
where the Shadowy Seas' last surges roar,  
till many things be come to pass,  
and many evils wrought. Alas  
the guest is here. The woods are still,  
but wait not; for a marvel chill  
them holds at the strange deeds they see,  
but kings see not — though queens, maybe,  
may guess, and maidens, maybe know.  
Where one went lonely two now go!"

 

Is it a coincidence that Thingol happens to wonder if it is Oromë's return which has caused this hush over the land — or that when he learns of a trespasser, demands,

"How walks he free  
within my woods amid my folk,  
a stranger to both beech and oak?"

— when elsewhere these particular trees are named as Beren's comrades? It would take a much longer space than this to go into all the tree-symbolism, mythic archetypes and stories of Oak-Heroes and Kings of Summer and Winter that seem to play beneath the surface here.

* * *

Melian: her innate power, and her adventurous and flamboyant nature are to be found in the source texts for _Silm.,_ in greater detail than in the published edition. In "The Tale of Tinúviel" _(LT2),_ an Elf who knew her answers the question of what she was like in the following words:

'Slender, and very dark of hair,' said Vëannë, 'and her skin was white and pale, but her eyes shone and seemed deep, and she was clad in filmy garments most lovely yet of black, jet-spangled and girt with silver. If ever she sang, or if she danced, dreams and slumbers passed over your head and made it heavy  
'…but now the song of Gwendeling's nightingales was the most beautiful music that Tinwelint had ever heard, and he strayed aside for a moment, as he thought, from the host, seeking in the dark trees whence it might come. And it is said that it was not a moment he hearkened, but many years, and vainly his people sought him, until at length they followed Oromë and were born upon Tol Eressëa far away, and he saw them never again. Yet after a while as it seemed to him he came upon Gwendeling lying in a bed of leaves gazing at the stars above her and hearkening also to her birds. Now Tinwelint steping softly stooped and looked upon her, thinking, "Lo, here is a fairer being even than the most beautiful of my folk" — for indeed Gwendeling was not elf or woman but of the children of the Gods; and bending further to touch a tress of her hair he snapped a twig with his foot. Then Gwendeling was up and away laughing just softly, sometimes singing distantly or dancing ever just before him, till a swoon of fragrant slumbers fell upon him and he fell face downward neath the trees and slept a very great while.  
'Now when he awoke he thought  
no more of his people…but desired only to see the twilight-lady; but she was not far, for she had remained nigh at hand and watched over him. More  
of their story I know not, O Eriol, save that in the end she became his wife…"

 

"She dwelt in the gardens of Lórien, and among all his fair folk there were none more beautiful than she, nor more wise, nor more skilled in songs of magic and enchantment. It is told that the Gods would leave their business, and the birds of Valinor their mirth, that the bells of Valmar were silent, and the fountains ceased to flow, when at the mingling of the light Melian sang in the gardens of the God of dreams. Nightingales went always with her, and she taught them their song. She loved deep shadow, but she was akin, before the World was made, unto Yavanna, and often strayed from Valinor on long journey into the Higher Lands, and there she filled the silence of the dawning earth with her voice and with the voices of her birds.  
Thingol heard the song of the nightingales of Melian and a spell was laid upon him, and he forsook his folk, and was lost…" _(HOME:LR,_ "Quenta Silmarillion.")

So we have an adventurous, independent, powerful-yet-mischievous demigoddess who wanders the dark corners of the world on her own until she meets the love of her Immortal life, the young chief of a primitive, newborn people, and goes off to tame a savage and dangerous land with him by her side… and doesn't know how to cope when their daughter takes after her parents. (I particularly like the image of Melian like a gypsy Queen, clad in sparkly transparent black dancing outfits, and the attendance of singing birds is an old Celtic attribute of divinity — Aengus is the most famous of the Celtic god-heroes, but there are others as well.)

She's a fascinating character, who like most epic figures raises more questions than are or can be ever answered, but it's intriguing to think about them. —What was she supposed to do, in Middle-earth, and what might have happened if she hadn't been so ambivalent about her daughter's destiny? (In one of the earliest rescensions, the second betrayal is not simply by Daeron (who is still her brother at this time) but partly accidental — Lúthien is trying to get her mother to help by pleading with Thingol to get an army together, after being told of Beren's captivity, and in one version she does help, but in the other Melian says — "No help wilt  
thou get therein of me, little one, for even if magic and destiny should bring thee safe out of that foolhardiness, yet should many and great things  
come thereof, and on some many sorrows, and my rede is that thou tell never thy father of thy desire" — just as the latter happens to be coming into the room, and says — Tell him what?

Which makes things so much worse that she wishes she'd never even talked to her mother; but — does Melian say this by accident, really, or not? And does she counsel Lúthien not to speak about it as advice to give up, or to do it on her own? All along, her role is strangely ambiguous — or is it? Your only daughter wants to go off and challenge your mortal enemy, the most powerful ruler in the known world, against whose defenses Elven armies have come to ruin, on behalf of someone who isn't going to stick around in this life or the next, and she wants your help to do it, and to take her side against your husband, and there are already strains in your relationship because of the situation …but on the other hand, there is your nature, your calling, the task you took up Ages ago to guard the Land, and the fact that by birth and training your daughter has a right to the name you gave her, _Sorceress_ —

Some days it doesn't pay to get up in the morning, as the saying goes.

* * *

Daeron: His status as greatest of the three greatest musicians of the Eldar is found in the first Lay fragment, Canto III:

"…and when the stars began to shine,  
unseen but near a piping woke,  
and in the branches of an oak,  
or seated on the beech-leaves brown,  
Dairon the dark with ferny crown  
played with bewildering wizard's art  
music for breaking of the heart.  
Such players there have only been  
thrice in all Elfinesse, I ween:  
Tinfang Gelion who still the moon  
enchants on summer nights of June  
and kindles the pale firstling star;  
and he who harps upon the far  
forgotten beaches and dark shores  
where western foam forever roars,  
Maglor, whose voice is like the sea;  
and Dairon, mightiest of the three."

Maglor being of course the second of Fëanor's sons; I don't know anything about Tinfang Gelion (also known sometimes as Tinfang Warble) — neither ethnicity, place of origin, nor gender, nor even preferred instrument (though "Warble" would indicate vocalist primarily) — who always appears as one of the three foremost but who seems to have been lucky enough not to have gotten famous for anything else in history. (The status of Daeron and Tinfang in fact predates the inclusion (or final name) of Maglor, going back to the _Tale of Tinúviel.)_

* * *

"absent friends" — in our continuum this is a traditional toast made in honor of dead comrades among military veterans; I employed this particular phrasing both because it is a memorable one and ambiguous in its unsentimentality (hence its appeal) and in hopes that the double appropriateness of it stemming from this association might possibly work its way into the reader's awareness, consciously or not; appropriate in this story, because the one who has occasioned it is also a casualty of the War, though unbeknownst to those who recall her overseas.

* * *

Elemmirë: a Vanyar Elf renowned for "The Lament for the Two Trees," about whom no more is known because this composer is evidently so famous as to be a household name in Valinor — and although the name endings aren't a 100% indicator of gender, known trends make it probable that the author of the "Aldudénië" is female, given the terminal -ë; "Elemmirë" (star-jewel) is also the name of an Arda constellation or first-magnitude astral body.

* * *

Chronology of the Geste:  
(taken from the Silmarillion, the Lay of Leithian, and the Grey Annals)

  
  
455/56   

    The Dagor Bragollach takes place at midwinter, winding down somewhat in spring of '56. Of the lords of the northlands, Fingolfin, Hador Lórindol, Angrod, Aegnor and Bregolas are all killed, with massive allied casualties and loss of territory. Finrod saved by Barahir, joined by Orodreth, with Celegorm, Curufin, Celebrimbor, and surviving followers driven from Aglon and Himlad, regrouping in Nargothrond.  
  

458  

    Tol Sirion lost. (The Haladin protect Doriath and Húrin and Huor are separated from their cousins, then rescued and taken to Gondolin by the Eagles.) Subsequently the situation in Dorthonion worsens; Lady Emeldir takes surviving civilians westward in search of safety — no exact time frame given.  
  

459  

    (Húrin and Huor are given special  
conduct to leave Gondolin and return home to Hithlum via Eagle.)  
  

460  

    Sauron comes to settle the rebels in person. Gorlim captured; Barahir and the other Outlaws killed. Beren continues his personal war alone.  
  

462  

    (Morgoth attacks Eithel Sirion, Húrin's father Galdor killed there. Cirdan brings a fleet to Fingon's rescue.)  
  

463  

    (Easterlings arrive en masse in East Beleriand, ally with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir.)  
  

464  

    Beginning quarter, during winter, Beren leaves Dorthonion, crosses the dead zone and enters Doriath, taking up residence in the northeastern quadrant of Neldoreth. (Also in the early part of the year, in Dor-lomin, Húrin marries Beren's cousin Morwen.)   
  
Around midsummer Beren sees Lúthien for the first time and is smitten.   
  
(Towards the end of the year, Túrin is born in Dor-lomin.)  
  
Through autumn and winter Beren haunts Neldoreth, occasionally catching sight or sound of Lúthien, but unable to approach or talk to her.  
  

464/5  

    At midwinter Beren sees Lúthien celebrating in the snow.  
  
Spring arrives, and the "spell of silence" on Beren is broken. Through the next few months their relationship develops, overwatched unknown to them by Daeron.  
  
Around midsummer Daeron betrays them to Thingol. Beren is assigned the Quest and departs westward for Nargothrond. Lúthien mourns at home and gives her family the silent treatment.  
  
Early autumn Beren arrives Nargothrond, the coup takes place, and "on an evening of autumn" Beren, Finrod, Edrahil and the other nine leave the City in the divided possession of Orodreth and the sons of Fëanor.  
  
After indefinite days of travel northward, they are picked up at the border of Anfauglith and taken back to Tol Sirion by Sauron's patrols. Duel, defeat and imprisonment.  
  
Simultaneously in Doriath, by psychic means, Lúthien discovers the truth and plans to attempt a rescue. Betrayed to her father again by Daeron and imprisoned in Hirilorn for indefinite days before escaping. Arriving environs Nargothrond is intercepted and taken hostage by Celegorm. Escapes with Huan after indefinite days imprisoned there. Arrives Tol Sirion late autumn/early winter.  
Joint battle and defeat of Sauron, rescue of Beren and other Elvish slaves employed at Tol Sirion. Burial of Finrod there. Ex-thralls travel to Nargothrond with Huan, while Beren and Lúthien wander around for an indefinite while sightseeing and arguing about what to do next, heading generally towards Neldoreth.  
  
In Nargothrond, counter-revolution results in the eviction of the sons of Fëanor. Their eastward route between Nan Dungortheb and Doriath intersects with Beren and Lúthien's trail north of Brethil. Attempted shooting of Lúthien, Beren shot, Huan defects to their side. The following day after Beren's healing they begin a debate/journey back to Doriath, taking an unspecified number of days.  
  
Meanwhile in Doriath proper, Thingol receives Celegorm's "offer of alliance" and responds with an army, but en route is obliged to detour to cope with an invasion of Orcs, and after taking care of that, sends Beleg in to Nargothrond to infiltrate and gather intelligence. Learning that Lúthien is gone who-knows-where, and that the sons of Fëanor have been sent packing, he gives up on that attempt and returns to Menegroth to plan new rescue efforts. No exact timeline for these events.  
  
Winter, early a.m. Beren sneaks off on Curufin's horse and rides back west and north to the Anfauglith.  
Later same day Lúthien convinces Huan to take her along, they detour briefly south to Tol Sirion, pick  
up Huan's stashed trophies and go north to catch up to Beren at the border of noman's-land at nightfall. (Could have been not that same day but the next — but maybe not, given the fact that the steeds were respectively a proto- _meara_ and an Immortal.) Huan leaves to go talk to Thorondor and other lawful animal species, after scolding Beren. That night Lúthien transforms them, at midnight they begin the crossing of the burnt plain.  
  
About two days travel broken by rest periods to get to the Gates of Angband (midnight through the following day and night, arriving at the foothills of Thangorodrim the next morning, and the road that led through the rough tailings to the Gate where they rest through the afternoon before continuing down it to arrive at the Gates by evening) followed by the attempted infiltration of Angband and The Duel, followed by the removal of the gem, the messed-up escape plan, Beren's maiming, and the extraction from before the Gates by Thorondor, Gwaihir and Landroval, with evacuation to the starting point in northern Doriath where Huan is waiting.  
  

466  

    Through the end of winter Beren is comatose, cared for by Lúthien and Huan. Meanwhile Carcharoth is rampaging madly around the northeast, as much a menace to Morgoth's own forces as to anyone else, and Thingol has sent an embassy to demand damages and assistance in finding Lúthien from Himring but the emissaries are intercepted and slaughtered by the Wolf, with only Mablung surviving the attack.  
  
Spring arrives, Beren recovers consciousness but not hope. Return to Menegroth end of spring/beginning of summer. The hunt of the Wolf. Beren & Huan killed.  
  

467  

    Lúthien dies, no season of year given, and goes to Mandos to appeal on Beren's behalf.  
  

468  

    Maedhros decides he could certainly do a better job than they managed and starts planning his own invasion of Angband.  
  

469  

    Beren & Lúthien return to Middle-earth, no season of year given, and after an unspecified time leave Menegroth, wander for a while, and end up in Ossiriand. Sometime in the next five years Dior is born. 

  


* * *

Sulilotë: "windflower;" Quenya, constructed name, after the fashion of _Ninquelotë_.

* * *

**xiv**.  
Finrod's brothers refer in their self-critical remarks to the statements in _Silm._ that they were eager to be off and among the first to step forward at Fëanor's behest — not surprising, if they were close friends to his sons and presumably close in temperment as well.

Finrod on the other hand is invoking the family issues of the preceding generation as a negative model and reproach, reminding them of the destructive consequences of their uncles' sibling rivalry for their grandfather's attention and approval — not a comparison which would be at all welcome, particularly given their centuries'-long role as elder guardians of mortals.

His attempt to console Aegnor and the latter's response connect with the matter of the "Athrabeth," Aegnor being no more willing, in this envisioning, to accept such a tenuous hope than his true-love was.

* * *

**xv.**  
Not enough consideration has been given, it seems to me, to the resulting familial stresses that would follow from the decree of banishment that has been discussed in Act III, whereby the Noldor refused to allow those who had been captured by Morgoth to return, because of the likelihood that some (or all) of them had been turned and were released only under a compulsion. I also wanted to point up the complications of interrelated Great Houses — and their interrelated followings; a historical fact in our earth, and equally so in Arda.

* * *

Time problem: the discussion of how time is measured and defined, and even perceivable, has been a hotly-debated philosophical as well as scientific issue for as long as people have been watching the stars and noting the regularity — and variation — of their movements. The need to abstract one' self from assumptions, to consider scientifically what is taken for granted (that is, the present standards of measurement, both on a small and a large scale) and the difficulties thereof are something I have personally experienced when trying to reassure high-school students as to the mystic-non-significance of "Y2K" and the reasons for not believing in it: one tool I used was an old Chinese New Year card made by Hallmark, which did very concretely what chalkboard diagrams of the solar system had not succeeded in doing — conveying the fact that a "year" is a segment of time whose start and stop are determined by people, not the Universe itself, and when we choose to do so entirely arbitrary and variable.

* * *

Crossings of Teiglin: the place where the southern road which leads from Tol Sirion towards Nargothrond traverses the river Teiglin; this is the particular location the Haladin were specifically charged to guard against Enemy incursions as the "rent" for Brethil forest by King Thingol — which at the time of its granting was hardly a heavy challenge (or foreseeably so), given the amount of allied traffic that must have traveled this main north-south corridor between the domains of the Noldor, the Fortress standing squarely athwart that road, and the Leaguer serving to maintain a perimeter even farther north. For most of the Long Peace it must have been a very busy locale, as well as a slightly inconveniently-splashy one in times of heavy traffic, given that it was after all a ford.

* * *

"not very biddable" — Maiwë is referring here to their shared Valinorean past, and one of Melkor's main arguments in seducing the Noldor to strife and rebellion: the idea that Men, according to the will of the Valar, "might come and supplant them in the realms of Middle-earth, for the Valar saw that they might more easily sway this short-lived and weaker race, defrauding the Elves of the inheritance of Ilúvatar. Small truth was there in this, and little have the Valar ever prevailed to sway the wills of Men, but many of the Noldor believed, or half believed, the evil words." _(Silm.,_ "Of the Silmarils.") It is also noted rather dryly earlier in the same passage by the chronicler that "little he [that is, Melkor] knew yet concerning Men, for engrossed with his own thought in the Music he had paid small heed to the Third Theme…" — an oversight which would cost him dearly, but which he would swiftly move to rectify, with not insignificant success.

* * *

bastard: one important theme in this act (as in the _Silmarillion_ itself) is that of communication — what are the basic assumptions, cultural contexts, and inherent traits that shape our understanding, so that language itself can become an obstacle, as well as what potential lies in overcoming such barriers. A thoughtless (to most of us, at least) insult serves as one way of illustrating the vast gulfs of understanding not simply between Men and Elves, but between the cultures which have been separated now for almost half-a-millenium, and whose experiences have diverged so radically.

Since Elves (with the world-shattering exception of Finwë) bond with a single partner, and conception follows from a voluntary act of the parents' will, bastardy cannot be an Elven concept in its origin; there is no way for it to enter the vocabulary except through contact with mortals, as the observation of nature would only yield the fact that different kinds of creatures follow different rules for social organization, including those concerning mating. Not until encountering sentients so similar in outward appearance and yet so different on very fundamental levels would, it is reasonable to assume, such a thing even occur to the Eldar — and, it is equally reasonable to deduce, be very troubling to think about. (Angrod and Aegnor, having been in close contact with Men for so long, understand the word superficially at least, enough to use the insult with meaningful intent.)

Nerdanel, however, being as wise, is likely to cut right through the social confusion following the _faux-pas_ of the unmeant corrolary of such an insult (i.e., her presumed infidelity) and to see the crucial facts of such a psychic difference, and their implications for recent events.

* * *

"a good thing" — Nerdanel's somewhat disturbing remarks (since encompassed in them is the fact of his death) follow naturally enough from the view that it is better to suffer wrongs than to do them.

* * *

Beren's amusement at their eviction from the Powers' discussion refers both to Beren's own experiences and those of House Finarfin not simply in Nargothrond but also in Doriath previously.


	53. Notes - part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

* * *

**xvi.**  
Miriel's death indeed preceded the release of Melkor, q.v. _Silm.,_ "Of Fëanor," where it is stated that while Indis' sons were still growing up, Melkor came up for parole and was released from Mandos after his case was considered.

* * *

**xvii**  
The Sea-Mew's reaction would likely be typical of Elves to Lúthien's imprisonment, given its anomalous character and the amply attested independence of the Eldar both in Aman and in Beleriand, and not merely the result of youthful empathy.

* * *

"defensive perimeter" — this dark-humoured remark is an allusion both to Leaguer and to the Guarded Plain protecting Nargothrond, where Beren was observed and arrested on his approach.

* * *

Again, more invocation of Montague-Capulet interactions in this section.

* * *

"minion" — a reference of course to their disguising themselves as Orcs.

* * *

The problem of interior mental attitude and moral guilt is not an abstract question, nor a matter of airy metaphysical speculation, as I have heard declared in college ethics classes, but a very real and material one: it is the difference between manslaughter and Murder One, and between different classes of assault even when no death results, and even when no assault is successfully carried through — with vastly different sentences corresponding to each.

 

And no, I don't think that there would be any Hollywood moment for Maiwë here, no "my hero!" exclamation and dazzlement overwhelming all rational doubts and self-interest at an act of violence undertaken (at least in part) on her behalf, given who she is, the culture she comes from, and what happened to her.

* * *

The interaction between Nerdanel and the Fëanorian lords reflects the fact that, as members of her husband's following, they would of course have been known to her before the rebellion, and in fact answerable to her as Lady of the House before the couple's separation.

* * *

"damnéd archers" — the problem of archers taking all the fun out of battle, so to speak, and levelling to a much greater extent the playing field, so that mere physical brawn and swordsmanship (or spearmanship) and courage no longer were the only elements (along with Fate) which determined the outcome of a battle, goes back at least to the _Iliad_ and probably earlier. (This is the same problem which the samurai found themselves confronting in the Renaissance, leading to the outlawing of firearms at a time when artillery and ballistics were being refined in Europe; this equalizing effect can be seen demonstrated in Kurosawa's incomparable epic _The Seven Samurai_ , where a primitive musket is employed against a ravaging warlord's forces with demoralizing results, despite its inefficiency.)

* * *

chess: Maiwë's query reflects the fact that I think it highly unlikely that chess originated in Valinor (though remotely possible.) Personally I suspect it to have been originally a Dwarvish invention, and modified first by the Elves and subsequently by mortals to add new elements of challenge (or alternately to reflect reality more closely.) It is in my opinion equally probable that it was first introduced to Doriath by the Dwarven architects and artisans who worked there, and from there brought to the other Noldor realms via the Finarfinions, as that it might have been "discovered" by Finrod first while working with the Dwarves on Nargothrond and thereby  
introduced to his cousins — who might have replaced archers with cavalry to give it a shape more familiar to us at present. Or it could just be that the _tafl_ style version, with all players equal in ability, as if on foot and armed only with hand weapons, was the original and the elaborations and specializations we are used to might be the later developments of the game.

* * *

**xviii.**  
Melkor's parole: Nienna (who was at that point thought of as the sister of Manwë and Melkor, not of Namo and Irmo) taking his part is mentioned in _HOME:LR,_ "Quenta Silmarillion", as is the fact that Tulkas and Ulmo didn't trust him despite his display of benevolent reform, Tulkas clenching his fists whenever the pardoned rebel went by.

* * *

  
**xix.**  
Before Cirdan was introduced into the mythos (or rather, his existence uncovered by the historian), Finrod (then known in the texts as Inglor, if you weren't confused enough already) was in fact posited as King and overlord of the coastal Teler as well as of Nargothrond, so his father's question is not entirely unwarranted, nor the idea implausible. ("The Quenta," _HOME:Shaping)_. In the absence of a strong leader of their own, the folk of the Havens might well have adopted this outgoing, efficient young kinsman from the West who helped them build up their defenses and improve their shipyards, just as many of the Elves of Beleriand made his cousin Turgon their lord.

* * *

That there was an expression of familial rivalries on a very low-key level between the branches of the House of Finwë, in the unusual extent of each family, is entirely my own suggestion; the _HOME_ timelines indicate a wide spacing of the children of Finarfin and Eärwen, (some sixty-odd years overall, but whether these are Valinorean years, which differ from Sun-years rather in the way that a "year" is not the same on every planet, or have already been converted to current dates, I'm still not sure), but I have not found any corresponding dates for the Feanorions or Fingolfinions to verify this conjecture. It isn't  entirely improbable, though, I think.

That having more children than one's sibling would be understood more in the nature of being a prolific artist — and a collaborative one, at that — rather than in any notion of male sexual prowess, comes from _HOME:Morgoth's Ring,_ "Laws  & Customs" where it's made clear that according to Elven thought, having children is one among many skills and talents, like painting, sculpture, writing, fibre arts, music, and so forth; that it's one complete process, throughout which both parents are fully involved (if in different ways) and that the father's part doesn't begin and end in bed, nor the mother's part begin in pregnancy (take that, Aristotle!) and that one has no business indulging in the begetting if one doesn't plan to stick around for the childrearing part. Though like all analogies this is a limited one, because the Elvish sages also believed that while parents contribute psychic energy to the developing offspring (one reason why fathers need to be around, literally lending psychological support) the newcomer is not in any way "part of" the parents' souls, but a unique and different person, independent of others, not a mere extension of the family, certainly not property — even, or especially, in the case of those who are reincarnated.

* * *

The contrasts between present-day chess and _tafl_ are used here, as in Act III, to make a point, but now the emphasis is slightly different, not on the fact of the unequal contest and difficulty as a metaphor for the struggles against the Enemy in Beleriand, and specifically equating Finrod to the namesake kingstone, but instead more strongly on the contrasting ways in which the two games are won or lost.

* * *

The complex and dynamic questions of how life shapes language shapes thought shapes sentient life are barely beginning to be systematically explored in a dispassionate way (i.e., not to "prove" cultural superiorities) by cognitive science researchers uniquely suited, by virtue of their own  
multilinguality, to ask the right questions.

* * *

Finrod's kingdom was not limited in its height to merely the capitol and its environs. All those lands held in vassalty by his brothers, and in turn let by them to their own lieges, belong to him as surely as the Shire belongs to Gondor. Thus the whole of the Sirion Valley and the northern border up to the Pass of Aglon is his, forming an L-shape or shallow "C" around Doriath, leaving the east side to the apathetic rule of House Fëanor and the largely uninhabited south uncertain as to what alliegiance, if any, was acknowledged by its nomadic inhabitants. (It also encircled, though unawares, the compact realm of his cousin, Turgon, along with the dead zone of Nan Dungortheb between Doriath and Dorthonion.)

 

The political importance was even greater, as was the "sphere of influence," because of the fact that Finrod alone communicated with all the Free Peoples of Beleriand, serving as the bridge between the factions of his family in the northeast and northwest, with the Teler of the seacoast and the Sindar of Doriath, (and safeguarding the renewed contact previously broken by Morgoth between them), with the wandering tribes of the Lindar in the East, and with those who were entirely Other as well, the Dwarf-Lords and mortals. Nargothrond controlled the main north-south traffic corridor, the Sirion valley, and also had what no other Noldor house had — a safe, quick, route east and west through Doriath, and a vast source of free information through Elu's messengers. No other Elven King had the same level of access to places and news, not because of pre-eminence of birth or military power, but because of interest and involvement — no one else was a xenophile, to put it another way. Family connections only get you so far, and nowhere at all with people who aren't related to you in any degree. The rapid disintegration of what remains of organized resistance in Beleriand after Finrod's exile cannot all be ascribed to the military might of the Dark Lord, nor should it be facilely ascribed to the curse of the Silmarils, as if dooms operate in a vacuum, rather than working on, and through, the available materials.

* * *

Elu's counselor refers both to the sons of Finarfin being kicked out over the Kinslaying revelation, and the later situation with the Haladin described in Act II:III, as well as other unknown arguments which may safely be presumed to have taken place over the centuries on matters from politics to advanced theology, given the respective parties involved.

* * *

Regarding Finrod correcting himself before speaking of Glaurung by kind: somewhat patronizingly, perhaps, but also considerately, he doesn't assume that people here are familiar with what he's talking about that is outside of their direct experience.

* * *

The Warden of Aglon's words echo Caranthir's to Angrod and Aegnor:

But Caranthir, who loved not the sons of Finarfin, and was the harshest of the brothers and most quick to anger, cried aloud: 'Yea more! Let not the sons of Finarfin run highter and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be indeed come to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin.' _(Silm.,_ "Of the Return of the Noldor")

* * *

"birdcage" — this jibe invokes the speech of Fëanor in the great square of Tirion, where with flaming torches in hand he proclaims, as recorded in a fragmentary poem, where his hot words are forebodingly uttered against the background image of the frightened Sea-elves wandering on the beaches or huddled on the ships, calling for each other and wondering what catastrophe has darkened their world:

"…the Gods' jealousy, · who guard us here  
to serve them, sing to them · in our sweet cages,  
to contrive them gems · and jewelled trinkets,  
their leisure to please · with our loveliness,  
while they waste and squander · work of ages,  
nor can Morgoth master · in their mansions sitting  
at endless councils. · Now come ye all,  
who have courage and hope! · My call hearken  
to flight, to freedom · in far places!"

(LB, "The Flight of the Noldoli From Valinor")

along with the fact that Valmar, the city of the Vanyar, was known for its golden architecture and its many bells whose notes filled the air around it.

* * *

Aglon's slightly ribald remark provoking the Barad Nimras comment in return refers to the statements in _Silm. "Of_ Beleriand and its Realms," about the Enemy never invading from the Sea. This is, in retrospect, obvious given the antipathy between the Powers of Water and Morgoth, but of course hindsight is always perfect, and neglect of defenses based on assumptions a dangerous thing.

* * *

yearsick: literal translation of Engwar, "the sickly ones", an epithet conferred by the Eldar on mortals, refers to sickness caused by the passing of time, rather than pestilence or injury.

* * *

"twilight" — harking back to her people's time on Tol Eressëa, of which it is said, "There the Teler abode as they wished under the stars of heaven, and yet within sight of Aman and the deathless shore; and by that long sojourn apart in the Lonely Isle was caused the sundering of their speech from that of the Vanyar and the Noldor," _(Silm.,_ "Of Eldamar") and in another rescension, "Ossë followed them, and when they were come near to their journey's end he called to them; and they begged Ulmo to halt for a while, so that they might take leave of their friend and look their last upon the sky of stars. For the light of the Trees, that filtered through the passes of the hills, filled them with awe." _(HOME:LR,_ "Quenta Silmarillion".)

* * *

"quarter Noldor" — this is in fact the case, as Finarfin is half Vanyar, and Eärwen presumably entirely of Teler descent.

* * *

the Ex-Thrall's story. it's extremely possible that there were female POWs at Tol Sirion, given that Morgoth was an equal-oportunity enslaver, and that the bastions of the Noldor were not merely forward military base camps, but fortified installations of long-standing, like the Roman _castrae,_ or medieval castles. Given what it says about Elvish gender roles in "Laws and Customs" _(HOME:Morgoth's Ring),_ she would not have been impossible nor even implausible, far less so than the very real aristocratic women who went into the field in WWI driving ambulances, and were occasionally casualties there. (This is reflected in the fictional account of the narrator's lost, enigmatic mother in _Brideshead Revisited;_ but that such drivers were not only courageous but also known at home for being somewhat reckless of speed limits, and sometimes came back from the War with decorated, titled husbands met in such chaotic circumstances, comes firsthand from the non-fiction pages of a crumbling 1919 newspaper in my personal possession.)

"two years" — to cross-reference, it will be recalled that this is when the situation in Dorthonion becomes untenable, and the extraordinarly-dangerous step of removing surviving civilian population willing to leave across that now-enemy-held area, through the mountains, is undertaken by their Lady.

Little Ease (& other horrors): her ordeal is not as "modern" as it seems, in large part because Tolkien himself anticipated many of the horrors of the 20th century years before they became fact, which in turn reflects the fact that the totalitarian excesses of the last century were but the outgrowth of those which preceded them, the police state well-known throughout 19th and 18th century Europe, the labour camps of Siberia merely continuing the traditions of the Czarist regime, the actual and virtual slavery of disenfranchised laborers, whose protests put down with such violence on the continent resulted in so many emigrations to the New World, and the infamously-hellish working conditions of mill and factory which have only moved to places where there is less regulation and oversight (or enforcement) these days. Angband's work environment is described in LL1, Cantos XII-XIII:

"They woke, and felt the trembling sound,  
the beating echo far underground  
shake beneath them, the rumour vast  
of Morgoth's forges

…the thunderous forges' rumours grew,  
a burning wind there roaring blew  
foul vapours up from gaping holes.  
Huge shapes there stood like carven trolls  
enormous hewn of blasted rock  
to forms that mortal likeness mock;  
monstrous and menacing, entombed,  
at every turn they silent loomed  
in fitful glares that leaped and died.  
There hammers clanged, and tongues there cried  
with sound like smitten stone; there wailed  
faint from far under, called and failed  
amid the iron clink of chain  
voices of captives put to pain."

And of course the systematic employment of brutality to control one's fellow-sentients, and by those who by innate temperment and/or bad upbringing find it an enjoyable diversion, is at least as old as recorded history. The confinement of political prisoners in an enclosure too small to lie down or stand up in was known to the jailers of Elizabethan England as "Little Ease," and the "divide and conquer" method of dealing with resistance well-known to the Romans. However Orwellian it might seem, this sequence is actually inspired more by Dante and the sources from antiquity that he drew on (along with the Lay itself, obviously.)

How bad could it have been? There is a tendency among fans to mistake reticence for naivete on the part of Tolkien, (which does not seem to take into account the facts of the Great War, for one thing) based on contemporary decades' explicitness in describing fictional torture and atrocity, often with a tone which indicates relish rather than real horror on the part of the authors. (Eddings, Jordan, Goodkind all leaping to mind.) But in one of the rescensions of the Fall of Nargothrond, when the dying Gelmir commands Túrin, he orders him to go and rescue Finduilas if he can — or kill her, if he cannot. Gelmir knows what he's talking about — if he, a veteran of four centuries' worth of warfare and the Crossing of the Ice, thinks the Halls of Mandos are a better alternative to surviving as a thrall, we can be sure that it was every bit as bad as anything described by Solzhenitzyn or other survivors — and worse: after all, the thugs of 20th century labour camps and prisons were not supervised by telepathic Darkside overlords. The following description of Húrin's "softening-up" in Angband dates from around 1926:

Said the dread Lord of Hell: · 'Dauntless Húrin,  
stout steel-handed, · stands before me  
yet quick a captive, · as a coward might be!  
Then knows he my name, · or needs be told  
what hope he has · in the halls of iron?  
The bale most bitter, · Balrogs' torment?

Then Húrin answered, · Hithlum's chieftain—  
his shining eyes · with sheen of fire  
in wrath were reddened: · 'O ruinous one,  
by fear unfettered · I have fought thee long,  
nor dread thee now, nor thy demon slaves,  
fiends and phantoms, · thou foe of Gods!'  
His dark tresses, · drenched and tangled,  
that fell o'er his face · he flung backward,  
in the eye he looked · of the evil Lord—  
since that day of dread · to dare his glance  
has no mortal Man · had might of soul.  
There the mind of Húrin · in a mist of dark  
'neath gaze unfathomed · groped and foundered,  
yet his heart yielded not · nor his haughty pride.  
But Lungorthin · Lord of Balrogs  
on the mouth smote him, · and Morgoth smiled:  
'Nay, fear when thou feelest, · when the flames lick thee  
and the whistling whips · thy white body  
and wilting flesh · weal and torture!'  
Then hung they helpless · Húrin dauntless  
in chains by fell · enchantments forged  
that with fiery anguish his flesh devoured  
yet loosed not lips · locked in silence  
to pray for pity. · Thus prisoned saw he  
on the sable walls · the sultry glare  
of far-off fires fiercely burning  
down deep corridors · and dark archways  
in the blind abysses · of those bottomless halls;  
there with mourning mingled · mighty tumult  
the throb and thunder of the thudding forges'  
brazen clangour; · belched and spouted  
flaming furnaces; · there faces sad  
through the gloom glided as the gloating Orcs  
their captives herded · under cruel lashes.  
Many a hopeless glance · on Húrin fell,  
for his tearless torment · many tears were spilled.

This scene — with the emphasis of helplessness and anticipation  
being employed as simultaneously the stripped, brutalized Edain leader is set up for an example to the other prisoners (mostly Elven) and their hopeless state kept in front of him to make sure that he knows there is no way out — and the following, wherein Morgoth plays good-cop next, offering Húrin not only healing from from his burns and flogging, but a position of power in his armies—

"I am a mild master · who remembers well  
his servants' deeds. · A sword of terror  
thy hand should hold, · and a high lordship  
as Bauglir's champion, · chief of Balrogs…"

—if he will only betray Gondolin's King to him, follows classic past and present interrogation tactics.

Add to that the fact that those Elves on whom the Dark Lord expended direct effort to break, remained pyschically broken thereafter, and — yeah, it would have been that bad. (Think of the mindflaying power of the Great Eye in _LOTR.)_ The worst accounts of Primary World abuse always involve a level of consent, of the tyrant (small scale or large scale) forcing the victim to cooperate in their own degradation, and particularly by betraying companions, which both is the political end in itself, a way of maintaining the hold over the mind _in absentia —_ and just plain fun for the kind of person who willingly gets involved in these activities. And yes, they're real, and they're not few, and they're far scarier than the hyped-up, eroticized serial killers of popular fiction, and they're not limited to any nationality or chronological period. You've probably encountered them in school already. All they need is organizers willing to use them against their enemies, and you have the Mob, the classic "police state" — or Angband.

* * *

Nerdanel's remark about hounds loving to sing reflects both Primary and Arda traditions; the lore of hunters talks of the sweet voices of the pack, and having a clear and beautiful call (as such things are reckoned) is a desirable trait in a hunting hound — but it is also present in the etymology of Huan's name (which is indeed a title as well — he is _The_ Dog, like a Scots laird's honorific) from the root "khug" meaning _to bark_ or _to bay_. (It also happens to be the simple truth, that it's canine nature to make loud noises.)

* * *

**xx.**  
Aulë's reluctance to go to war is described here

"Oromë tarried a while among the Quendi, and then swiftly he rode back over land and sea to Valinor and brought the tidings back to Valmar; and he spoke of the shadows that troubled Cuiviénen. Then the Valar rejoiced, and yet they were in doubt amid their joy; and they debated long what counsel it were best to take for the guarding of the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor. But Oromë returned at once to Middle-earth and abode with the Elves.

Manwë sat long in thought upon Taniquetil, and he sought the counsel of Ilúvatar. And coming then down to Valmar he summoned the Valar to the Ring of Doom, and thither came even Ulmo from the Outer Sea.

Then Manwë said to the Valar: 'This is the counsel of Ilúvatar in my heart: that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.' Then Tulkas was glad; but Aulë was grieved, foreboding the hurts of the world that must come of that strife…" _(Silmarillion,_ "Of the Coming of the Elves")

The suggestion that he might have been reluctant to do so for fear that it would harm the unawakened Dwarves follows naturally from the concerns of the Valar in the earlier Ages that their battles might injure or destroy the Children they knew of from the Song, but whose place of Awakening was unknown to them:

In the confusion and the darkness Melkor escaped, though fear fell upon him; for above the roaring of the seas he heard the voice of Manwë as a mighty wind, and the earth trembled beneath the feet of Tulkas. But he came to Utumno ere Tulkas could overtake him; and there he lay hid. And the Valar could not at that time overcome him, for the greater part of their strength was needed to restrain the tumults of the Earth, and to save from ruin all that could be saved of their labour; and afterwards they feared to rend the Earth again, until they knew where the Children of Ilúvatar were dwelling, who were yet to come in a time that was hidden from the Valar. Thus ended the Spring of Arda…" _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.")

"And it is said indeed that, even as the Valar made war upon Melkor for the sake of the Quendi, so now for that time they forbore for the sake of the Hildor, the Aftercomers, the younger Children of Ilúvatar. For so grievous had been the hurts of Middle-earth in the war upon Utumno that the Valar feared lest even worse should now befall; whereas the Hildor  
should be mortal, and weaker than the Quendi to withstand fear and tumult. Moreover it was not revealed to Manwë where the beginning of Men should be, north, south or east. Therefore the Valar sent forth light, but made strong the land of their dwelling." _(Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon.")

The validity of such concerns is shown by looking at the map of Beleriand in conjunction with the passages which follow the first quotation given above — or by comparing the map of Beleriand with that of Third Age Middle-earth.

* * *

Ossë: this Maia of the oceans was lured to rebellion against his own lord, Ulmo, by Melkor (for whom the uncontrollable quality of the Sea was a challenge and a threat) but through the good efforts of his wife Uinen and family friend Aulë was redeemed and remained thereafter a passionate defender of law and order (while paradoxically remaining a fan of chaos, responsible for destructive storms) — which lawfulness even more paradoxically brought him into occasional conflict with that lord in a later Age when the situation grew more complex. _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta," & _UT.)_

* * *

**xxi.**  
Arda Envinyanta: this is what I have termed "the Heresy of Felagund," the belief in an Eschaton in which the Marring will no longer damage the cosmos, which is seen in its fullest expression in the _Athrabeth_ , the "Debate of Finrod and Andreth," but which appears in glimpses elsewhere throughout the Arda mythos. This is the "Second Music" spoken of in the Silmarillion, "Ainulindalë" in which the Children will be co-demiurges of the world with the Ainur, making the Great Song as it should be without discord. It is also there in the later, Second Prophecy of Mandos, when the entire world will grow old and weak enough that Morgoth can break into it again and destroy the Sun and Moon in terrible battle, before being defeated by none other than the mortal Túrin fighting at the side of the Powers, after which, as in the Scandinavian myths of Ragnarók, the world will be remade.

One remarkable implication of all this is the fact that Arda Renewed will not be Arda as it would have been without the Marring, as if Morgoth had never rebelled, any more than it is simply a patched-up version of this present universe. Another is what it says to possibly contradict the Elven certainty that unlike mortals, their lives are limited to this world only, with no hereafter — the Professor's dramatic re-envisioning of an old European folk-belief, which, unexamined, simply declares that the deathless ones of the land and sea, Fair Folk and mermaids, have "no souls." This belief, which is what the Eldar traditionally hold, and which is the meaning of the "sundered fates" and the tragedy of mortal-Elven love (and equally, of Ainur-Elven love), is revealed to mortals in the _Athrabeth_ , a complicated philosophical work set like a Socratic dialogue or Anglo-Saxon debate (but unlike most 20th century philosophy) into a "real-world" context of individuals and problems personal, societal, and metaphysical.

The _Athrabeth_ cannot be understood without considering it in the context of the Geste. It doesn't make sense apart from the full stream of events retold in _Silm.,_ neither for its irony nor for its implications. It isn't something tacked on to the mythos, either, as some have declared, but the natural outgrowth of the issues which the Geste, and the other three central stories of Elven-Edain interaction, the Narn, Gondolin, and Earendil, create and embody, but do not examine. They are, after all, stories — there is room for some reflection in them, but not much, without stopping the action dead. But during all those long years before, after, and during the crises which get stories told about them, the characters of the _Silmarillion_ were thinking and talking and writing about what was going on around them and how they were reacting to it. It's just that most of this lore, as we are repeatedly told throughout _Silm.,_ of the First Age was lost in the course of the War and subsequent disasters. _Athrabeth_ is one fragment which wasn't.

The setting, which in the context of the _Athrabeth_ only unfolds gradually, and is revealed as the argument progresses, (significant spoilers, I'm afraid) is sometime not long before the Dagor Bragollach, of which coming disaster Finrod has vague premonitions, sharing with his brothers the certainty that containment of Morgoth is not the best strategy, but with no more knowledge than that future warfare is the inevitable result of the present stalemate. And a little while longer ago, one of his younger brothers, Aegnor, fell in love with a noblewoman of the Bëorings' tribe, and wasn't able to deal with it. Knowing that not only was she going to become old and feeble, but also that after she died they would be separated for eternity, he took the classic commitmentphobe's way out and stayed away from her for the rest of her life. The _Athrabeth_ itself is the discussion of mortality, immortality, and Eternity by Finrod and the now-elderly, embittered mortal sage Andreth, wherein and both of them learn surprising things even after all these years about each other's peoples, and Finrod is hit with another vision, in which he starts seeing how these contradictory impressions and beliefs about the universe might actually all fit together and work out ultimately.

It's long, it's complicated, it touches on high-level metaphysical issues that Plato, Aristotle, the Vedas, Anselm of Canterbury, Dame Julian of Norwich, the Talmud and Lao Tzu all wrestled with, to name a few, and taken together with the Second Prophecy and the Second Music, undoes one of the most devastating facts of the Arda mythos, the idea that Elrond and Galadriel and all their people will just cease, as if they had never really mattered at all, except as preparation for human beings, and that this is somehow balanced out, as the Elven sages believed, by their own earthly immortality. It needs to be read in full, not once, and like every serious work of metaphysics I've ever encountered, can't be summed up simply, or understood the same way on each reading.

But a few things stand out from it, which can be easily remarked on (aside from the signal fact that Finrod will shortly die for one of Andreth's nephews aiding and abetting a relationship which he once considered fundamentally ill-advised): that he is willing to consider the worst possibilities — namely, that Evil is ultimately stronger than Good — while rejecting that claim; that he himself is at ease with the thought of his own finiteness, his own ultimate mortality, though grieved for the parting of friendships between their races; that only a "Great Doom" will make a mortal-Elven relationship work (which if you think about it, is really the same as saying that they have to be very unusual people to overcome the obstacles); the unpleasant consideration of those obstacles, not only the ultimate tragedy of separation, but the mundane and wretched problems of one spouse aging, the other not, and the fact that the Eldar don't think it's good to have children when the father is likely to be away or at risk in war, because of the importance of parental, not merely maternal, nuturing in early years; that the Eldar are not willing to risk things any more, and prefer to take the safe route of permanence over the harrowing risks of the future; that both the Firstborn and the Secondborn are meant to teach, enrich, and heal the other.

Thus the counter-arguments of his perturbed compatriots — that Finrod is grasping for everything (as would the Dark-seduced Numenoreans in the Second Age), or that he therefore doesn't regard suffering and destruction as serious in consequence, or that he's being hubristic to claim that he, a mere Elf, has glimpsed what is beyond the ability of even the Valar to know — are for the most part invalidated by the Athrabeth, valid though such objections are against some (or most) Eschatalogical arguments which I have read. The concept of Arda Envinyanta is unfathomable, but it doesn't simply dismiss past traumas as irrelevant compared to future goods, any more than Arda as it is is held up as "the best of all possible worlds." It isn't a wish for personal continuation that underpins Finrod's struggles to formulate his theory, but a conviction of the universal Justice as guiding force in the universe, that ultimately Good is, and cannot be destroyed — as a Greek poet put it, "—if the gods are evil, they are not the gods—" The role of the Followers in recreating the cosmos isn't just an adopted parent's enthusiatic belief in his own protegés, but implicit in the very Themes themselves.

—Whether or not claiming to know better than the gods themselves how the Song goes overall is arrogant, is one of those internal states of mind which can't be judged from outside — but it's a dead certainty it would look that way to most people. It is entirely in keeping, however, with his historical connection to Ulmo (more on that below). —Note, however, that the Powers themselves are depicted in Act IV as singularly blasé about ranting Eldar uttering defiant, radical, irreverent claims (or apparently-defiant, radical, irreverent claims) that others might think impious or blasphemous, which also comes from the _Silmarillion_ and elsewhere. That the Weaver is more worried about damage to her house and tools, and her husband more worried about her being upset, isn't just for humorous effect. —After all, it isn't as though Finrod is doing anything wrong (being annoying doesn't count), like, oh, cutting down  trees for no good purpose…

* * *

  
ice: this example of Melkor's earliest efforts to thwart the power of Water in the conceptualization process of the Elements, and his inability to do so, is found in _Silm.,_ "Ainulindalë".

* * *

myth: Beren and Amarië are referring to the subject matter of _Silm.,_ "Of Aule and Yavanna." I think one's attitude towards myths would be rather different if one were personally acquainted with the deities involved in them.

* * *

Concerning the arrival of the Edain in Beleriand, incorrectly believing that Aman was somewhere in Middle-earth — the reader may have guessed already what it is that Finrod (vainly, as it will turn out) is trying to keep from coming out about that event.

* * *

The only known time wherein Finrod actually loses control to an extent due to anger is the moment of Exile in Nargothrond, where he slams down his crown before the people and challenges any of them to follow him, so these others are my conjecture, containing as this example does elements of personal betrayal, attack, and danger to those under his protection in some degree. This comes from the fact that mere personal hostility is demonstrably not enough to get the eldest Finarfinion to reply in kind, when clarity is lacking, as demonstrated in the circumstances surrounding their temporary exile from Menegroth. Thus the Doriathrin counselor is understandably shocked to witness this outburst coming from Finrod, not Angrod.  


* * *

  
Beren speaking of their last words is referring to Finrod's lines in _Silm.,_ "…it will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart" — from which "may" I originally took the conceit of this Act, and the implicit possibility of its alternative, before I knew about the existence of the Athrabeth — but which was followed by, in the version of the Quenta from which CT edited this redaction, the line _"Yet perchance even that sorrow in the end shall be healed"_ — ! _(HOME:LR,_ emphasis mine.)

In the original version of the _Silm.,_ as in the Geste itself, the seed of hope, that doubt of the ultimate futility of everything, was always intended to be there: even as Finrod believes himself bound for a long stay in Mandos, the poet of the Lay and chronicler of Doriath who tell of it  know that he is already free in Valinor; even as it seems that his friend's love is doomed to be eternally unfulfilled, he affirms that tenuous certainty which their unhappy kindred rejected in _Athrabeth_. This time around, the Elven lover dares to grasp heartbreak, the mortal lover to keep faith, and they do change the ending of the story.

* * *

One reason Amarie is so particularly annoyed with Finrod over this matter of visions is that she is Vanyar, and he's only quarter-Vanyar, and her people are the ones who all along were closest to the Powers in terms of friendship and affinity, way before the malice of Melkor started turning the Noldor against the gods, so there's a bit of rivalry in operation going on here on top of everything else, a bit of spiritual jealousy at this passing-over (if it's really real) for a rebel who's hardly Vanyar at all!

* * *

banshee: a regrettable but irresistible joke, due to the fact that it is literally true — banshees are not ghosts, nor evil spirits, as is commonly believed, but only mourning female relatives of the soon-to-be-deceased, who happen to be immortals. "Ban" is Gaelic for woman, "shee" the phonetic rendering of "Sidhe" — the Fair Folk, those who dwell "beneath the hills" and within the woods. So it exactly describes the current situation, since the traditional banshee keens for the mortal scions of her own house, whose existence is due to just such long-ago romances.

* * *

Islands: see _Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon," for the story of the defensive screen of islands and time-trapping web of dreams (similar to the Girdle around Doriath) set up to protect the coast of Aman against a renewed invasion from Middle-earth (along with the expansion of the mountain-barriersand the maintenaince of a round-the-clock watch on the only pass to the interior of the continent) which actually ended up catching those Noldor sailors who succeeded in getting that far in defiance of the Ban.

* * *

"Not before you're ready" — the obvious explanation for this, and all the exchanges referencing this fact about the Halls, would be that it comes from "Laws and Customs," and specifically the "Statute of Finwe and Miriel;" however, I didn't actually read the Statute until this scene was finished, and only once, briefly, skimmed the earlier parts of L&C before writing Act IV to this point. The simple basis for it is the high priority placed throughout Tolkien's other writings on personal liberty, the value set on individuality, and healing — the fact that regardless of power or authority, no one can coerce another's will and still be a good guy. And that no one is compelled to do what they ought, regardless of how "practical" it would seem — that even self-binding via oaths to a good cause is discouraged, for instance, by Elrond; and that those who do not wish to come to Aman are not forced to do so by Oromë.

So it wasn't really surprising at all that the problem of those who wish to remain however inconveniently dead may do so for as long as they wish, and ideally should be free of pressure from family members to hurry up and make the decision (whichever way), so that a significant length of time is mandatory and must elapse before any permanent commitment can be made. No one is forced to return to life who does not wish to, and no one is allowed to compel another either to leave before their healing is complete, or to stay there so that the spouse of a deceased Elf can remarry. The rights of the Dead are forcefully upheld by Námo and Vairë, even when they consider the decision to be a bad one, as in the case of Miriel.

(The rights of the individual to self-determination is specifically upheld by the Weaver, who denies the beliefs of the other Valar that poor Miriel didn't know what she really wanted and was rushed into things by Finwë (who was a selfish lout for giving up on her so quickly) and wasn't up to making the decision, even after all those years had gone by for her to reconsider: Vaire points out that she's worked with Miriel for a very long time now, knows her pretty well, and since it's a safe bet that Finwë also knew his soul-mate very well, it's also safe to assume that he knew what Vairë has noticed about Miriel — that she's one of the stubbornest people in Arda, and not weak-minded or weak-willed at all. —Oh, and before you guys go slamming Finwë, wait till one of us Valier leaves you here, stuck with the Children to mind, and you've got to go through the rest of Time all alone…!)

But it was pleasant, I admit, to discover that the issues had been discussed in detail and so articulately, and that Námo was just as adamantly fair-minded as I had assumed the Lord of Justice to be, and that the Weaver has canonically a tart manner when she gets ruffled.

(It can be seen by this that Amarie is seriously pushing the limits, here — technically she hasn't done anything "wrong" by asserting that she just doesn't want to have anything to do Finrod for the next hundred-forty-four years, but she and everyone else knows perfectly well that she's breaking the spirit of the law against telling your spouse to stay dead…)

* * *

Ulmo: his role as Finrod's patron is longstanding, and comes from the sequence wherein Finrod and his cousin and close friend Turgon are travelling along the Sirion together, and receive simultaneous but separate dream-warnings to seek out and reinforce safe havens for their followings, which inspiration results in the building of Nargothrond and Gondolin. What exactly this means, and why the other powers find it so exasperating, comes from his role as Loyal Opposition in the Ring of Doom (when he bothers to come at all — he doesn't find it easy to limit himself to the kind of material, land-bound form that his fellow demiurges enjoy) and elsewhere, arguing against the idea of bringing the Eldar to Valinor in the first place, and constantly working to counteract the power of Morgoth — and the doom of the Noldor — throughout Middle-earth wherever his power over water is not completely overwhelmed by pollution.

He finally gets a chance to explain in full what he's trying to accomplish and how, to Beren's as-yet-unborn cousin Tuor, the one who in Beleriand most clearly hears his call and is willing to help, and does so to an extent that no one else in Beleriand, Man or Elf, has shared, as he commissions the mortal as his prophet before sending him to warn Turgon and the Noldor of impending crisis. (All of which is set forth in the fragmentary chronicle, "Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin," _UT.)_ But, in brief, it's his  job to argue, defy, and subvert, because monolithic unanimity without dissenting opinions isn't good for any ruling body, celestial demiurges or not. After all, he's the Power of the Deeps, and that's what water does, as well as to heal, purify, provide easy communication and transport, quench thirst, and sooth the soul…

—But if it weren't the case that Ulmo had chosen Finrod to carry out his work in Middle-earth first, then it would be very natural to assume that Tulkas was his particular patron, (rather than Aulë by default of his Noldor heritage.)

* * *

Taliska: as remarked in earlier acts, this, the native language of the Bëorings, was derived like that of the people of Hithlum and Brethil from the Elven dialects of the eastern Moriquendi who befriended the ancient Edain and taught them, but these dialects, which survived in part to become incorporated in what would become eventually Westron, are very different from both Quenya and Sindarin. That Finrod could intuitively comprehend their speech and learn it by first mindspeaking with the tribe of Balan is indicative of his unusual abilities in this area (due no doubt in part to the fact that unlike most in Aman, he came from a bilingual family to begin with.)

"Barbarous" is a linguistic joke, but also fairly apt: the word barbarian refers to those foreigners who did not speak Greek as their native tongue, and thus were obviously "not from around here" nor civilized. (Literally, it means people who go "bar, bar, bar," instead of speaking "real" words; the nearest American equivalent to this Classical jibe would probably be "spic.") Thus, what his friend (who earlier, recall, did not say "there's nothing wrong with your accent," but "you can't help your accent," which isn't the same thing — but the Dead must speak truthfully) in essence says is —Yes, you're a hick, and you talk funny — now, are you going to let that stop you?

* * *

Námo is the avatar of Justice in Arda. Justice is not sentimental. (Nor is giving consolation the proper function of that office.) The fact that other people have and will continue to fall down on the job does not in and of itself make it so that Beren's not failing in his own duty ought to be rated higher in consequence. (Justice doesn't grade on a curve, so to speak.) The Doomsman is not mean. He's just not nice.

* * *

Regarding the attempted rescue of other Silmarils: in fairy-tale terms, it's inevitable — that whatever it is that shouldn't be done, which will arouse the guards of the sought-for entity on the quest, will happen. Prince Ivan takes the gorgeous bridle, not the rope halter, because it is more fitting for the finest horse in the world, and the spell of sleep is broken in the quest for the Firebird. Murphy's Law is always operative, such stories would seem to remind us. But the specific rationale is not my own invention. Although this complaint has bothered me ever since I encountered it on Usenet, and the obvious corollary never seeming to be asked — so, having come this far, with all the history lying behind, you'd just leave the others there without trying? Really? (And if so, what's wrong with you?) — the two key words themselves are there in the original texts: _save_ , and _free:_

"Again he stooped and strove afresh  
one more of the holy jewels three  
that Fëanor wrought of yore to free.  
But round those fires was woven fate:  
not yet should they leave the halls of hate…"

in the first rescenscion, and in the second,

"Behold! the hope of Elvenland,  
the fire of Fëanor, Light of Morn  
before the sun and moon were born,  
thus out of bondage came at last,  
from iron to mortal hand it passed.  
There Beren stood. The jewel he held,  
and its pure radiance slowly welled  
through flesh and bone, and turned to fire  
with hue of living blood. Desire  
then smote his heart their doom to dare,  
and from the deeps of Hell to bear  
all three immortal gems, and save  
the elven-light from Morgoth's grave.  
Again he stooped; with knife he strove;  
through band and claw of iron it clove.  
But round the Silmarils dark Fate  
was woven: they were meshed in hate,  
and not yet come was their doomed hour  
when wrested from the fallen power  
of Morgoth in a ruined world,  
regained and lost, they should be hurled  
in fiery gulf and groundless sea,  
beyond recall while Time should be…"

That the Silmarils are alive, and in some sense yearn for their native elements, derives from _Silm_. itself:

"Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as is the body to the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life. And the inner fire of the Silmarils Fëanor made of the blended light of the Trees of Valinor, which lives in them yet, though the Trees have long withered and shine no more. Therefore even in the darkness of the deepest treasury the Silmarils of their own radiance shone like the Stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvellous than before."

They can thus be described in a sense as being "cuttings" of the Two Trees, in that they are independent of the parent organisms the way that botanical life can reproduce (though not in a natural manner), and capable of surviving (so to speak) thus detatched; but there is a sense in which they are more like artificial seeds, since, imprisoned in their unbreakable crystal shells, they do not grow and change the way the Trees did, but remain perpetually limited and _in potentia,_ while beautiful in themselves.

So — greed and stupidity, or foolhardy selflessness? Your call — but read the words. But it's clear from the texts that it isn't a punishment, (as I have read one essayist declare), a sort of divine cause-and-effect wherein the Valar hit Beren with the loss of his hand as a penalty for the arrogance of trying to take all of them. (For one thing, the Powers don't have that kind of clout, quite apart from whether they would.) It's just destiny — which is a fancier way of saying "stuff happens, bad and good, and sometimes things work out and sometimes they don't."  


* * *

  
revenge: the pledge to avenge Barahir if it took him to Angband itself, mentioned in Scene II, as recounted here in LL2, Canto III:

"There Beren laid his father's  
bones  
in haste beneath a cairn of stones;  
no graven rune nor word he wrote  
o'er Barahir, but thrice he smote  
the topmost stone, and thrice aloud  
he cried his name. 'Thy death,' he vowed,  
'I will avenge. Yea, though my fate  
should lead at last to Angband's gate.'  
And then he turned, and did not weep:  
too dark his heart, the wound too deep.  
Out into night, as cold as stone,  
loveless, friendless, he strode alone.

which is significant not simply for being fulfilled in a way the maker never could have imagined, but for the fact that Beren's response to his father's death is described in the exact terms of his later emotional state following Finrod's killing.

* * *

Endymion, Tithonus & Utnapishtim: these three mythical characters are very much present in the audience, nodding knowingly from the gallery at the arguments and counterarguments. Both of the first two were Classical figures, mortal men who were loved by celestial women, and whose situations are not exactly enviable. Utnapishtim was a Mesopotamian folk hero who received immortality and found it a very ambiguous gift. Endymion is the most famous, but his fate hinges on that of the less fortunate Tithonus, a royal scion of Troy, who caught the fancy of Eos, goddess of morning, (made famous by Homer as "the rosy-fingered dawn.")

Eos apparently was cursed, by none other than the inconsistent Aphrodite, for helping Ares to cheat on her (with whom the goddess of love was cheating on her husband Hephaestus.) Her doom? To always fall in love with mortals, whom she was thus bound to lose. One of these was the well-known hunter-hero Orion. Tithonus never got a constellation, because technically he isn't dead — after a number of these short-lived love affairs, Eos had the brilliant idea of asking Zeus to give her latest inamorato the gift of endless life.

Unfortunately, it didn't occur to them that endless life and endless youth are not the same thing, until it was too late. Tithonus got older and more decrepit until Eos couldn't stand to be around him any longer, though he remained living (such as it was) in luxury in her palace for centuries. Eventually Prince Tithonus grew so bent and withered that he was changed into a grashopper, and became an Olympian cautionary tale against falling in love with mortals.

Selene, the sister of Eos and charioteer of the moon — who may or may not be supposed to be identical with Diana in this story, being real mythology, it isn't very clear all the time — also spotted a handsome young man asleep on a hillside one night while she was doing her rounds. This was Endymion, who was either a shepherd, a king, or both, and who received a slightly different, but no less ambiguous gift, from the moon-goddess. Remembering the Tithonus disaster, Selene asked Zeus to give him a sleep of eternal youth, thus ensuring that he would always be handsome, healthy — and, as it happens, helpless to leave, argue, or complain. The ideal dream-lover, so to speak; true, he can't do much, but Selene had thought out the pros and cons before making her decision and factored it all in…

Utnapishtim was the Mesopotamian "Noah-figure" of their Flood story — which differs somewhat from the Biblical version in that people aren't in trouble because they've done anything specific like engaging in continuous warfare, but simply because they're noisy and get on the nerves of the Elder Gods. (It also differs in that the Elder Gods are a bunch of drunks, who frequently get each other snockered as a way of pulling fast ones on each other, and many of the inherent flaws of humanity are due to the fact that the rival goddesses who shaped people were doing shots at the time.) However, the counter-agent-figure of Mesopotamian mythology, who doesn't agree with the plan of wiping out people, and finds a sneaky way around the classifcation order, is none other than Enki, Lord of the Waters, who tells the plan not to his friend Utnapishtim, but to the walls of Utnapishtim's house. The construction of a huge ship and Flood follow, Men survive, the other Elder Gods relent, and Utnapishtim receives immortality as the due of his wisdom and efforts.

However, this turns out to have been a dubious gift — if it was meant that way at all. Gilgamesh, seeking immortality himself, encounters Utnapishtim in his wanderings, as an ancient, decrepit figure all alone, having outlived all his family, and eternal life not being able to counteract the natural aging process of mortality. —Not a pleasant prospect.

Thus, when later another mortal hero gets in trouble for busting the wing of the West Wind, and Enki tells him to answer the summons to the Gods' mountain, but also how to get out of the charge with a successful defense, he counsels Adapa against eating or drinking anything there, because it will cost him his mortal life.

Now there are two ways of looking at it: Enki (aka Ea —!) is an ambivalent god, generally benevolent, but unpredictable or at least jealous enough of divine status to try to cheat Adapa out of what is offered him by lying to him that he will die if he sups with the Gods. —Or, alternately, he saw what happened to Utnapishtim and realized that eternal continuation without eternally-renewed strength is not something that is good for anybody. The myths, of course, don't say one way or the other. Most commentators on the Adapa story interpret it the first way — but none of them seem to consider the myths as a unity, in the light of both the friendship of the Lord of all Waters with the Ark-maker and Gilgamesh's encounter with his ancient progenitor. Taken all together, it becomes far less simple and clear-cut.

(And yes, JRRT was familiar with Near Eastern mythology, too.)

* * *

  
Question of mortality passing faster, or seeming to go faster, in Aman: this comes up much later, in the growing determination of the descendents of the Edain to "have it all," challenging the Eldar over their faith in mortals' eternity and demanding that they be allowed to sail West as well as east. Whether or not, as the chronicles speculate, the too-powerful ambiance of Valinor would overwhelm mortal physiology and cause Men to burn out faster there, or whether it might merely seem that way, due to the fact of there being no "time markers" such as we are used to in a harsher climate and history, that a mortal lifespan would seem to fly by like no time at all, the problem of being the only sentients which aged in an ageless paradise is a real one. Would there be less resentment, or more? These future events chronicled in _Silm.,_ "Akallabeth," play as strongly into this scene and themes of this act as events of the First and Third Ages and the Before-Time of the Song.

* * *

"Fëanor himself, maybe, wrought them, in days so long ago that the time cannot be measured in years."  
(LOTR:TTT, "The Palantir")

The need to convert times points up the fact that everything was different in the Time of the Trees, in a way which can hardly be comprehensible to someone born under and knowing only the Years of the Sun — and vice versa. The Sea-Mew, killed in darkness, has never seen either the sun or moon, or experienced time as it now runs, "swiftly," in the world outside the Halls, and has no frame of reference by which to make an equation; Beren, who has never known anything but the present state of things, also has no way of understanding the relative measurements, so it must fall to one of the returnees who has experienced both modes to render it comprehensible for both of them (or rather, to give Maiwë the equations necessary for her to be able to do so.)

* * *

Gildor: that Gildor of the Outlaws was named after the same Gildor Inglorion who speaks to Frodo on the road in _LOTR:FOTR_ is not a far-out assumption. Gildor the Elf is one of those from Aman, originally part of Finrod's following. The Edain names are all either known to be those of real Elves, or of Elvish derivation linguistically, and it isn't unlikely that Gildor, Barahir's mortal follower, was named after another notable of their common overlord — perhaps for a friend or comrade of the man's father or grandfather, from whom the name was borrowed. This exchange also points up one way that Gildor-met-in-the-Third-Age might have plausibly gotten to the lands east of the Ered Luin before that time, though there could be others — but more importantly, that niggling little historical fact that everything has to get from one point to another somehow, some concrete how, (though it may be lost to us) whether it be name or object or news or person.

* * *

cousin: there's no way of knowing how many living cousins Beren had during his own lifetime, given the number of siblings his parents had, and the tribal connections of the Edain, but as in the earlier story I have taken the liberty of positing interactions in peaceful years with those two younger ones unfortunate enough to be known to history. Morwen and Rían had to learn their wilderness survival skills somewhere to begin with, after all.

* * *

hamsoken: a medieval English legal term reflecting the conviction that it is worse to come onto someone else's property and attack them in their own home than to simply get in a fight in a public place or commit highway robbery — adding insult to injury, as it were.

* * *

Eldar: Per _Silm_., Orome called  all the Elves at Cuivienen "Eldar," the People of the Stars. Some of them later decided that it only applied to those of them who'd gotten to Aman. I feel pretty sure that the rest of the Umanayar, the people who didn't get to Aman, would have strongly disagreed with that attempt to co-opt the name and lay claim to the symbolic stars thereby, and that the Valar, for whom language and names were clumsy things necessary for interfacing with material dimensions, would have thought it all pointless and silly divisiveness.


	54. Notes - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

* * *

Edrahil's explanation of their ghostly state as discussed and determined by the Noldor intelligentsia is actually a quick summation of the notion of the Forms, or Ideal Versions of Things, put forward in Platonic philosophy. (The phenomena they are attempting to explain also go along with classical mythology, and subsequent takes on the afterlife, but mostly with Graeco-Roman tradition. —Was Sysiphus rolling a real boulder in his punishment, or merely a virtual boulder? Regardless, it was "real" enough for living visitors to Hades to note and comment on it.)

* * *

As always, thanks are due to [Ardalambion](http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/), for their easy-to-use online linguistic resources, allowing some creative use of vocabulary drills. (The ban on the use of Quenya in Beleriand proclaimed by Thingol would hardly be relevant to them at that point, regardless of ethnicity, given the terminal nature of their situation.) Beren's "cobbled-together" word _Atandil_ means "mortal-friend," while Edrahil's retort, _Atandur_ , indicating that he's just doing his job, signifies "mortal-servant." The reference to the "taste" of words is derived from the Quenya word _lámatyávë_ or "sound-taste" which refers to an individual's sense of what words and combinations of sounds "feel right" when spoken aloud.  


* * *

  
No, Edrahil's song isn't mine. I'm not that good: I just borrowed from a source very familiar to JRRT as well. (The grayed-out lines are those which I didn't include in the excerpt for this scene, and the ones in brackets are not my own translation.)

  
  
**"The Wanderer"** Oft him anhaga are gebideð  
metudes miltse þeah þe he modcearig  
geond lagulade longe sceolde  
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sae  
wadan wræclastas wyrd bið ful aræd  
swa cwæð eardstapa earfeða gemyndig  
wraþra wælsleahta winemæga hryre |  | ['Often the solitary man enjoys  
  
The grace and mercy of the Lord, though he  
Careworn has long been forced to stir by hand  
The ice-cold sea on many waterways,  
Travel the exile's path; fate is relentless.'  
So spoke a wanderer who called to mind  
Hardships and cruel wars and deaths of lords.]  
---|---|---  
oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce  
mine ceare cwiþan nis nu cwircra nan  
þe ic him modsefan minne durre  
sweotule asecgan Ic to soþe wat  
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw  
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde  
healde his hordcofan hycge swa he wille  
Ne maeg werigmod wyrde wiðstondan  
ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman  
for ðon domgeorne dreorigne oft  
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste  
  
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde  
oft earmcearig eðle bidæled  
freomægum feor feterum sælan  
siþþan geara iu goldwine minne  
hrusan heolstre biwrah and ic hean þonan  
wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind  
sohte sele dreorig sinces bryttan  
hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte  
þone þe in meoduhealle min mine wisse  
oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde  
weman mid wynnum wat se þe cunnað  
hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan  
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena  
warað hine wræclast nales wunden gold  
ferðloca freorig nalæs foldan blæd  
gemon he selesecgas and sincþege  
hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine |  | -Oft should I, alone each dawn,  
my cares lament: now living is none  
that I to him the mood of my heart  
dare disclose. I know full well  
that for a leader 'tis lordly strength  
that he his locked counsels shall fastly bind,  
hold close his coffered thought, howso other he would.  
-No more may heartwearied Doom stand defying,  
nor shall troubled musings bear with them help-  
for they most earnest of others' respect, tears oft   
in their breast's chamber shall bind away fast.  
  
So should I oft my soul make safe-  
beggared by care, bereft of my House,  
far from my home - fettering my soul  
since I left him, my lord gold-joyful, generous,  
in earth's dark depths - and I unwillingly,  
winterweary, was bound hither over the waves.  
[And suffering sought the hall of a new patron]  
Where might I find, living, friend or lord now  
who shall in meadhall name me their own?  
or my friendlessness would turn to friendship,  
win me to joyfulness? -This do we know  
how cruel a comrade is sorrow to him  
whose true friends have all been taken,  
wandering in exile - worthless the worked gold,  
ice-cold his inmost thought, worthless the flowering fields.  
 _[He calls to mind_ ` v`receiving gifts of treasure  
  
And former hall retainers, and remembers  
How in his younger years his lordly patron  
Was wont to entertain him at the feast]/font>  
wenede to wiste wyn eal gedreas  
for þon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes  
leofes larcwidum long forþolian  
ðonne sorg and slæp somod ætgædre  
earmne anhogan oft gebindað  
þinceð him on mode þæthe his mondryhten  
clyppe and cysse and on cneo lecge  
honda and heafod swa he hwilum ær  
in geardagum giefstoles breac  
ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma  
gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas  
baþian brimfuglas brædan feþra  
hreosan hrim and snaw hagle gemenged  
  
þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne  
sare æftre swæsne Sorg bið geniwad  
þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð   
greteð gliwstafum georne geondsceawað  
secga geselden swimmað oft on weg  
fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð  
cuðra cwidegiedda cearo bið geniewad  
þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe  
ofer waþema gebind werigne sefan |  |  _He minds him ever_ ^how all joy is broken,   
for that he knows that his joyful lord  
and his dear counsel shall long be forgoing:  
then sorrow and sleep ever together  
pitiful, solitary, oft are binding  
him in mind that he his liege-lord  
clasps and kisses and on knee lays  
hand and head, as he did betimes,  
vassal in spear-hall, at the gift-dealing-  
yet, then awakened, the joyless man  
sees before him the fallow waves,  
bathing the seabirds, broad of wing,  
as sleet and snow and hail fall mingled.  
  
Then all the heavier be heart's wounds,  
sorely yearning after. Sorrow's made new again,  
when comrades in mind and thought return:  
he greets, joyfilled, earnestly looks on them-  
yet swiftly their souls swim oft away,  
floating forth, nor bring their spirits  
the cheerful harpsong. Cares are made new  
to him that shall send ever anew  
over waves binding the wearied soul.  
  
for þon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld  
for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce  
þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence  
hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon  
modge maguþegnas swa þes middangeard  
ealra dogra gehwam dreaoseð and fealleþ  
for þon ne mæg weorþan wis wer ær he age  
wintra dæl in woruldrice Wita sceal geþyldig  
ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde  
ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig  
ne to forht ne to fægen ne to feohgifre  
ne næfre gielpes to georn ær he geare cunne  
Beorn sceal gebidan þonne he beot spriceð  
  
oþ þæt collenferð cunne gearwe  
hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille |  | For this I may not in this world think  
of aught that my heart might darken not  
when I name noble lives all gone thence,  
[how they suddenly have left their hall]  
brave horsemen and vassals. So Middle-earth  
and all upon it daily fades and fails.  
For this a warrior may not name him wise  
who has not dwelt winters in that worlds-realm.  
[A wise man must be patient, not too hasty  
in speech, or passionate, impetuous  
or timid as a fighter, nor too anxious  
or carefree or too covetous of wealth;  
Nor ever must he be too quick to boast  
Before he's gained experience of himself  
A man should wait, before he makes a vow,  
Until in pride he truly can assess  
How, when a crisis comes, he will react]  
ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið  
þonne eall þisse worulde wela weste stondeð  
swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard  
winde biwaune weallas stondaþ  
hrime bihrorene hryðge þa ederas  
woriað þa winsalo waldendlicgað  
dreame bidrorene duguð eal gecrong  
wlonc by wealle sume wig fornom  
ferede in forðwege sumne fugle oþbær  
ofer heanne holm sumne se hara wulf  
deaðe gedælde sumne dreorighleor  
in eorðscræfe eorl gehydde |  | -Such a one knows how soul-shaking shall be  
when all this world's wealth stands bestrewn  
as now likewise upon Middle-earth  
the wind bewails where walls are standing  
ice-enameled, ruined the fortresses,  
fallen the wine-halls, [monarchs lifeless lie  
deprived of pleasures,] dead the defenders,  
lying by walls. Some the war took from us,  
faring in faroff ways: that one fed the carrion fowl  
far from harbour, to that one the ice-grey wolf  
dealt out death, - that one the faithful friend  
hid in earthen grave, mourning for lord.  
  
There is a lot more of this poem which I haven't translated or transcribed, but which is well-worth reading, as it contains, for example, the lines "where now the horse, where now the rider?" and other trenchant meditations on hubris, mortality, and the transience of status and good fortune.

* * *

**Scene III.**

This is among other things an homage to the great swashbucklers of the 1930's: _The Prisoner of Zenda, Robin Hood, Captain Blood, The Scarlet Pimpernel,_ and all the rest of those films which managed to combine action, adventure, romance, drama, intrigue, special effects, great costuming, superb cinematography  and well-turned dialogue, products of an art which appears to be largely lost these days.

 

Gower's speech reflects the frequent comparison of true love as more permanent than the sturdiest earthly monuments, both in essence and in memory, such as stone buildings and cast bronze statues, in Shakespeare's sonnets, q.v. the Notes to Act III. The addition of trees is a recognition of the culture of Arda.

* * *

**i.**  
the Loom: much of what I have done in this Act is based on the following statement:

"Vairë the Weaver is his spouse, who weaves all things that have ever been in Time into her storied webs, and the Halls of Mandos that ever widen as the ages pass are clothed with them." _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta.")

But it is often overlooked that Aulë is patron of weavers and embroiderers as well as smiths and artisans, and co-patron (with Yavanna, naturally) of farmers. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.") Into his purview fall the arts-and-crafts, and the abstract sciences as well as the applied ones, and we are told that he and Melkor had most in common, and there was an intense rivalry stemming from Melkor's unwillingness to acknowledge anyone else his equal — but Aulë's efforts are all creative, and not destructive. _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta")

Since it is also under his aegis that the Noldor invented and refined letters, there is a happy fusion of interests in Vairë's living-history recording project, and I consider it not unlikely at all that Aulë would have both been involved in the creation of it, and that at the counsels of the Valar their interaction would have taken the form of oblivious tech-speech, impenetrable to outsiders…

* * *

"the last crisis" — i.e. the flight of the Noldor. Not a chance reference.

* * *

  
**ii.**  
The decorative flames are present because the effects of light and water feature in Tolkien's writing (q.v. Gandalf's fireworks in Hobbiton) — and also in a dark-humored allusion to _LOTR:TTT,_ "The Passage of the Marshes."

* * *

That Angrod and Aegnor were well-known to Lúthien follows naturally from their visits to Menegroth to see Galadriel. That she would be severely put out with them for harassing Beren at such a time (or any other) is probably an understatement.

* * *

"Black is the color" — this traditional English folksong has already appeared earlier in Act III; see earlier notes for its relevance.

* * *

Irmo, being (along with Estë his wife — note that the Powers nearly always work in pairs) the Maia principally concerned with healing and spiritual understanding, was both the Power into whose care Miriel was given — and, one might assume, most deeply affected by their inability to save her from her suicidal depression.

* * *

Tilion: the pilot of the Moon, and doubtless the source of the expression "mooning about someone," as his hopeless, unrequited love for Arien, the pilot of the Sun, and their non-romance a subject of the chronicles — and for good-natured teasing, as is shown in the lore of the Shire, q.v. _LOTR:FOTR,_ "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony." His intense psychic bond with the late Tree Telperion together with his defensive skills as a hunter made him the obvious choice for the job, as Arien's own communing with Laurelin and her combination of fearlessness and intelligence made her the automatic choice for hers; but Tilion's efforts to impress Arien by racing her and continued attempts to hang out with her, regardless of her own wishes, combined with his easy distractibility, have had a strong negative impact  
on his performance. The question of replacing him has not been recorded as coming up, however.

* * *

Eöl: It's highly unlikely that anyone outside Gondolin would know about this situation, (q.v. Act III) given the isolation of the City — and given his previously-displayed behavior, I doubt very much that he would have suddenly changed his ways merely by virtue of being dead. It's all too easy to imagine him demanding his wife back from the Lord of the Halls in the same way that he challenged the Noldor lords in Beleriand…

* * *

Beren's recognition of Irmo reflects the fact that in life, he has had a "prophetic dream," the warning of danger which preceded the dream-vision message given to him by Gorlim.

* * *

Bereg: the "black sheep" of the Bëorings, he has been mentioned earlier in Act II, and was the one who, together with Amlach of House Marach, convulsed the early Edain with a dramatic rift. (It also seems plausible that Sauron, or another minion, was involved in the scandal — but I tend to think Sauron myself, not simply because of the apt symmetry, but also because the message was entirely in the style of his later successful efforts to seduce Númenor.) Here, because it is so pertinent, is the story in full, taken from _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West":

But many Men remained in Estolad, and there was still a mingled people living there long years after, until in the ruin of Beleriand they were overwhelmed or fled back into the East. For beside the old who deemed that their wandering days were over, there were not a few who desired to go their own ways, and they feared the Eldar and the light of their eyes; and then dissensions awoke among the Edain, in which the shadow of Morgoth may be discerned, for certain it is that he knew of the coming of Men into Beleriand and of their growing friendship with the Elves.

The leaders of discontent were Bereg of the house of Bëor, and Amlach, one of the grandsons of Marach; and they said openly: 'We took long roads, desiring to escape the perils of Middle-earth and the dark things that dwell there; for we heard that there was Light in the West. But now we learn that the Light is beyond the Sea. Thither we cannot come where the Gods dwell in Bliss. Save one; for the Lord of the Dark is here before us, and the Eldar, wise but fell, who make endless war upon him. In the North he dwells, they say, and there is the pain and death from which we fled. We will not go that way.'

Then a council and assembly of Men was called, and great numbers came together. And the Elf-friends answered Bereg, saying: 'Truly from the Dark King come all the evils from which we fled; but he seeks dominion over all Middle-earth, and whither now shall we turn and he will not pursue us? Unless he be vanquished here, or at least held in leaguer. Only by the valour of the Eldar is he restrained, and maybe it was for this purpose, to aim them at need, that we were brought into this land."

To this Bereg answered: 'Let the Eldar look to it! Our lives are short enough.' But there arose one who seemed to all to be Amlach son of Imlach, speaking fell words that shook the hearts of all who heard him: 'All this is but Elvish lore, tales to beguile newcomers that are unwary. The Sea has no shore. There is no Light in the West. You have followed a fool-fire of the Elves to the end of the world! Which of you has seen the least of the Gods? Who has beheld the Dark King in the North? Those who seek the dominion of Middle-earth are the Eldar. Greedy for wealth they have delved in the earth for its secrets and have stirred to wrath the things that dwell beneath it, as they have ever done and ever shall. Let the Orcs have the realm that is theirs, and we will have ours. There is room enough in the world, if the Eldar will let us be!"

Then those that listened sat for a while astounded, and a shadow of fear fell on their hearts; and they resolved to depart far from the lands of the Eldar. But afterwards Amlach returned among them, and denied that he had been present at their debate or had spoken such words as they reported; and there was doubt and bewilderment among Men. Then the Elf-friends said: 'You will now believe this at least: there is indeed a Dark Lord, and his spies and emissaries are among us; for he fears us, and the strength that we may give to his foes.'

 

But some still answered: 'He hates us, rather, and ever the more the longer we dwell here, meddling in his quarrel with the Kings of the Eldar, to no gain of ours.' Many therefore of those that yet remained in Estolad made ready to depart; and Bereg led a thousand of the people of Bëor away southwards, and they passed out of the songs of those days. But Amlach repented, saying: 'I now have a quarrel of my own with this Master of Lies, which will last to my life's end'; and he went away north and entered the service of Maedhros. But those of his people who were of like mind with Bereg chose a new leader, and they went back over the mountains into Eriador, and are forgotten.

* * *

"seen your father angry" — this is a reference to Galadriel's brothers getting thrown out of Menegroth upon the revelation of the Kinslaying and their prolonged silence on the subject. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Noldor in Beleriand") I've taken the (minor) liberty of assuming that they visited, like any proper heads-of-state in peace time, with an entourage, and that this royal train might well include high-ranking members of the court. Given that one of the Lay outlines speaks of the words of power being "wrung" from Sauron, this is an accurate guess on his part.

* * *

"What does he know about fire?" — this is referring to the fact that the Maia known to history as (among many other things) Olórin is in fact a fire-spirit, but one who "walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them." _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta: Of the Valar.")

* * *

"ere Tilion's embarcation" — a reference to the dark deserted streets between the Flight and the Moon, as for that time (which may have extended for several years duration, though I am not certain of the chronology there) that the orbiters were under construction **there was no natural light source in Arda** except for the stars. This is a fact which, together with its full implications, seems to escape notice frequently, when the cataclysm is considered — which should not be the case. (It is admittedly difficult for those of us who have never experienced a cataclysmic natural darkness, such as following a volcanic explosion, during a blizzard, or in a hurricane, or even the perfectly-natural and brief one of a full solar eclipse, to do so — I myself have only ever experienced a 3/4 solar eclipse, which was extremely strange — but it needs to be attempted, or else the magnitude of the disaster of the Treeslaying, and the concommitant psychological disruption and effect on the populace, will continue to elude the reader.

And yes, this would be a very raw bit of guilt-tripping, too.

* * *

Amarië: yes, one more "yes" answer to an either-or question: that of whether or not she and Finrod were married at the time of the Darkening of Valinor. In at least one place, she is referred to as his wife; but elsewhere, as in the published _Silm.,_ it seems as though they were not. The idea that that they might have gotten as far as exchanging public vows and rings, in keeping with Valinorean tradition, but not as far as the actual physical consecration of those vows, neatly allows for a gray area in which, depending on how one looks at it, they could be considered married, or equally, not. At any rate, they were definitely committed to each other, and so of course any apparent or actual rejection and betrayal is going to be infinitely worse…

* * *

jilting: this also serves as a nod to the Border Ballad tradition, "Young Lochinvar" and so forth, and the Scottish romances so popular beginning in the 19th century, though some of the atmosphere also harkens to the Icelandic sagas. That there would have been such strife among the Bëorings from time to time is implicit in the following passage:

"But it was said afterwards among the Eldar that when Men awoke in Hildórien at the rising of the Sun the spies of Morgoth were watchful, and tidings were soon brought to him, and this seemed to him so great a matter that secretly under shadow he himself departed from Angband, and went forth into Middle-earth, leaving to Sauron the command of the War. Of his dealings with Men the Eldar indeed knew nothing, at that time, and learnt but little afterwards; but that a darkness lay upon the hearts of Men (as the shadow of the Kinslaying and the Doom of Mandos lay upon the Noldor) they perceived clearly even in the people of the Elf-friends whom they first knew. To corrupt or destroy whatsoever arose new and fair was ever the chief desire of Morgoth; and doubtless he had this purpose also in his errand: by fear and lies to make Men the foes of the Eldar, and bring them up  
out of the east against Beleriand…" _(Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West")

* * *

_Tafl,_ the game I have used as "mortal chess" in Act II, also called _cyningstane_ (kingstone), has simpler rules and more difficult play than what we think of as chess today. (And yes, chess did exist in Middle-earth, or some board-game translatable to "chess," at least, as Gandalf refers to it in _LOTR:ROTK,_ "Minas Tirith," saying to Pippin, "The board is set, and the pieces are moving…But the Enemy has the move, and he is about to open his full game. And pawns are likely to see as much of it as any…" This doesn't of course guarantee that it existed in the First Age, but it gives me some warrant, at least, beyond mere probability.)

The reason for its presence and emphasis here is not only continuity with the earlier parts of the Script: it will become clearer, but the secret of _tafl_ is that  it embodies the "song of staying" described in LL1, Canto VII. If you haven't read the Lay of Leithian fragments yet — what are you waiting for?

* * *

**iii.**  
No, Elu wasn't acting on his own — this was a well-discussed and collective solution to the Lúthien problem, and she's justifiably angry at everyone who was involved, either actively or tacitly, by not standing up for her.

"In angry love and half in fear  
Thingol took counsel his most dear  
to guard and keep…"

I have moreover made the presumption that the emissaries sent to Himring to demand restitution and help in finding Lúthien from Maedhros would include some of the most senior of the kingdom's counsellors.

* * *

**iv.**  
kingstone: one of the several ways that _tafl_ or _cyningstane_ differs from modern chess is that you take as many pieces as are bracketed by your troops, like the games Othello or Pente.

* * *

  
The question of what — had not the Bragollach intervened — Beren's adult career would have looked like is an interesting one. Recall that he was not in immediate line for the headship of House Bëor, being only the son of the lord's younger brother — and the lord himself having two sons of his own, both of whom had children of their own. Being so far down the line for "the throne" it's highly likely that he would have followed in his father's path as a military commander, serving at the Leaguer, under the aegis of the Princes. What his life would have been like outside that duty is more complicated. We are told that he was born different from other Men, "in a charméd hour," and was from the beginning attuned to the wilderness in a way far from normal, which had the beneficial effect of making him the most successful hunter around — a skill highly valued in a non-industrialized society, agrarian or not — as well as allowing him to survive a war-zone situation which would have destroyed anyone else. But this "otherness" might have made it difficult to fit in completely comfortably with his fellow mortals, lordly house or not, even as his future kinsman Tuor found it difficult to fully adjust to civilization after living a nomadic, outdoors lifestyle for so long. It's entirely possible — even probable — that he might well have ended up (given the existence of older, able cousins to help keep order in Dorthonion) eventually going off to follow the King, even as did his ancestor Bëor, and might have ended his days as peacefully in Nargothrond, serving as a Ranger there and learning the arts of music from Elvish masters.

* * *

"doesn't look like" a Bëoring: this remark is a comment on Beren's atypical appearance, the fact that he was a bit taller than was typical and had blue eyes and sandy-blond hair — perfectly legitimately, since his mother was a near relative of Hador "the Golden.".

* * *

  
The fact that Ingold, meaning "Wise," is Finrod's mother-name, taken together with the fact that _amilessi_ are believed to be prophetic,makes the fact that the Bëorings, who were initially convinced that he was one of the Valar they were seeking, subsequently conferred on him the name  Nóm, which also means "Wisdom," particularly interesting. _(Silm.,_ "Of  
the Coming of Men into the West.")

* * *

  
**v.**  
That Mablung was distraught at Beren's death is found in _Silm.,_ (since most unfortunately the extant fragmentary Lay itself does not go so far) where it is said that "Mablung and Beleg came hastening to the King's aid, but when they looked upon what was done they cast aside their spears and wept."

* * *

  
**vi.**  
For the purposes of providing a different perspective on life before the cataclysm in Valinor, I have, as is now revealed, made the Captain and his family to have been faithful retainers of Finarfin's House, and not formerly of any great influence or renown, save among their own organization and friends. The idea that his sister also might be a huntress, goes automatically with the consideration of who in a great household might be Galadriel's handmaid, and what favored pursuits, given that lady's attested "amazon disposition" and her cousin Aredhel's delight in hunting. One might think of them not as, in those days, merely a gracious court of poets and musicians like Eleanor of Aquitaine's, but also like Diana and her maidens and favoured hunters — or indeed that medieval Queen and her contemporaries — riding far and wide with bow and spear exuberantly through the woods of Aman.

The Steward, on the other hand, is now shown to have come from a much "higher station" initially than his friend, and not the nearly co-equal status they now possess, from a much more "typical" Noldor background, and from a much more stressful family situation as a result. (Note that nobody has any doubt that rebel or not, the Captain's relatives will welcome him back with rejoicing, while his friend is not sure he still has a home to go back to.) By assigning him to the following of Mahtan, he is in a perfect position to be completely torn between parents who expect him to become a great artist — in the visual arts, and his own musical yearnings, pulling him equally towards the more skilled and prestigious grandson of Mahtan, and his much-junior, less-renowned, but far more congenial cousin and his multi-ethnic family. Which latter friendship itself will strain ingrained assumptions and snobberies to the breaking point, ultimately, but not without a great deal of personal turmoil in the meantime.

* * *

"The Terrible" — I don't think it as unlikely as some authorities that Sauron would himself employ the name by which he was known in Middle-earth, in any of the forms of it (Thû, Gorthaur) throughout history, since he was, after all, the leading commander of a dictator, viceroy left in charge of the war in his soveriegn's absence, sent out to pacify insurgent regions, sieze key strategic positions, and deal with troublesome rebels. Being known as "the abhorred one" or "the dreadful" isn't an image problem for a warlord, really — or as the ancient saw goes, "Let them hate, so long as they fear me."

* * *

The notion of some sort of casting of lots derives initially from the mere fact that of the twelve captives, Beren and Finrod were left for last — and is validated not by a line of the authors, but by the crossing out of a line. In the outlines, it says:

"…they come upon the _werewolves_ , and the host of Thû Lord of Wolves. They are taken before Thû, and after a contest of riddling questions and answers are revealed as spies, but Beren is taken as a Gnome, and that Felagund is King of Nargothrond remains hidden. They are placed in a deep dungeon. Thû desires to discover their purpose and real names and vows death, one by one, and torment to the last one, if they will not reveal them. From time to time a great werewolf ~~Thû in disguise~~ comes and devours one of the companions. …at last only Felagund and Beren remain. It is Beren's turn to be devoured…"

and in another draft,

"They go and seek to break into Angband disguised as Orcs, but are captured ~~and set in chains, and killed one by one. Beren lies wondering which will be his turn.~~ by the Lord of Wolves, and set in bonds, and devoured one by one."

 

The combination of these facts, one positive, one subtractive — the removal of the line which states that he wondered when his own time would come — strongly indicates that it was no accident that Beren outlives the Ten. The idea of a form of lot-casting, for fairness, follows from that not unnaturally; the idea of a verbal form comes from the technical difficulties of drawing lots while immobilized and in complete darkness, and the fact that in the Elvish languages, as in many earthly ones, the same characters were used for numbers as for letters. And, of course, a system that works by the choosing of letters whose order of precedence depends on a word as yet unannounced by the leader could be foiled by someone able to guess, or know, what that word was going to be.

* * *

Beren's complaint about the seeming-uselessness of everything when the end result of all good intentions and works is the same defeat and destruction is a very trenchant one, and not unrelated to the objection put forward by the Lord of the Halls to his own King as related in _Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon," when the idea that good may ultimately result from it is put forward in answer.

* * *

The interactions between Finarfin and the Captain reflect the problem that all the Noldor had lives before, and knew each other, and not only marriages and families would have been broken in the Flight, but also friendships and working relationships — so, now what? It should be pretty clear now that for the most part, the Host of the Noldor were a bunch of rebellious young kids who ran away to sea to seek their fortunes, even if they thought they were completely competent and quite able to take care of themselves, in any situation they might encounter. And to a large degree they did, and were, and to a greater degree they weren't, and trying to establish a new set of ground rules and boundaries for all of them in their interactions now would,  
I think, be one heck of a challenge.

* * *

Enedrion: this is the name given to the foremost follower who insists that a successor must be publicly acclaimed before their exile from Nargothrond in the Grey Annals, where elsewhere the name Edrahil is given, the latter being the form which Christopher Tolkien went with for the published version of _Silm_. I am not being merely equivocal in my Elvish answer of "yes" to the question of which one is correct: following  
the form established for naming conventions, Enedrion is a patronym, not a proper name, so both may be quite true. Enedrion itself seems  
as if it must derive back to Enedir, which breaks down to something like "the world's bright center," but this is only a conjecture on my part,  
for the purpose of more easily illustrating the prior, present, and changing social situations in post-cataclysm Aman.

* * *

  
Edrahil's making a virtue of necessity and putting a different cast on the strictures of Mandos (which are based in part on the old idea that the summoned dead must speak the truth) to take the moral high ground against Finarfin in their clash is technically called "mental reservation," and is the reason why witnesses in court are adjured to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." (Emphasis mine.) How far this form of ommiting can be stretched in various circumstances while remaining within ethical bounds is a matter for much debate, revolving around motivation and the moral authority of the questioner; the u>advisability of doing so is a different problem entirely.

* * *

Araman: "Above-Aman," that region of sub-arctic tundra where the marching Host of the Noldor and the accompanying Fëanorians aboard the surviving ships were told to cease-and-desist and return to face justice for the Kinslaying, by it is believed, the Doomsman himself, speaking for Manwë. _(Silm., "_ Of the Flight of the Noldor.") The fact that there is some doubt about this is also interesting. Finarfin turned back, with a minority of his followers; the rest continued, with Finrod and Galadriel  
emerging as the _de facto_ leaders of the March.  


* * *

  
Nerdanel: this Noldor lady, coming from a high lineage in her own right, her family being distinguished for its close connections with Aulë (as well as their unique auburn hair), is one of the more tragic characters in this series of "dark and difficult legends." Fëanor her husband studied with her father, the master-smith Mahtan; she was an sculptress equally capable of extreme realism and flights of abstract art. They had seven children, the largest known family among the Eldar, to whom "she bequeathed her mood" only in part, and only to some, they taking after their father for the rest, unfortunately for the world. We are told that she was wise, and the only person who could reach Fëanor and get through to him to make him see sense in his paranoia — but that eventually he stopped listening to her as well, something which would appear to correlate with his increasing attentiveness to then-Melkor.

 

She, however, unlike the vast majority of the Noldor, was not swayed by his charisma against her better judgment and when he stopped heeding her counsel, she went her own ways. Even before their separation, this independence was demonstrated in her friendship with her husband's step-mother, a sign of open-mindedness as well as autonomy, (but which undoubtedly made Finwë's son conclude that everyone was out to get him, that his father's second wife had succeeded in taking even his own wife's loyalty away from him — instead of judging, as a reasonable person would, that perhaps since even Nerdanel liked her, Indis might not be a totally worthless person after all.) After the Flight of the Noldor, Nerdanel moved in with her mother-in-law, and that is the situation which we find at present.

 

She is also possessed of a certain degree of the Sight, and while trying to convince Fëanor to leave at least the two youngest children behind,  
while he in turn dared her to prove her love for the family by joining them in the Flight, warned him that one of them at least would never make it to Middle-earth regardless — which foretelling is borne out in the story that their youngst son was sleeping on board the ships from homesickness when Fëanor burned them to prevent defections and forestall any chance of competition from his other relatives in Middle-earth.

 

So I have tried to show her as wise, independent-minded, indomitable, and an artist/technocrat, as she is described in the various source texts — "firm of will, but more patient than Fëanor, desiring to understand minds rather than to master them" — and someone with a tremendous burden of sorrow, who still keeps going and uses her own experiences to help her in that quest to understand others (which is a significant component of wisdom, after all.)

 

Her presence comes from the need to have a foil worthy to match words with Finrod from among those who remained behind, but not as closely or as personally tied to him, with the attendant emotional complications — obviously, it would not be possible to find anyone among the great houses of the Eldar with no connections to the Finarfinions! That is, she can say things that Finarfin and Amarië can't, won't, or won't say without a discrediting overlay of resentment and anger.

* * *

heresy: this is a reference to the cosmic reinterpretation of existence which occurs to Finrod in, as he believes it to be, a prophetic vision of the Eschaton, as related in the "Athrabeth" (of which more later) — and since it goes directly against everything previously believed by the Eldar about their own limited nature and confinement to the Circles of the World, both in dimension and duration, for the existence of Arda, and since it's being put forward by someone whose standing is dubious at best, I can't imagine it would be particularly well-received, especially at first — but by the same token, it would certainly be highly-controversial in the time before people in Valinor at least became used to the notion enough to include it as a possible alternative in "Ainulindalë," where it appears in the following lines (emphasis mine):

"Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music,  
though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before  
Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar  
after the end of days.

Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being  
in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully  
his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each,  
and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased."

There, in a nutshell, is the entire notion of Arda Envinyanta, the idea that the universe will be made new again, and the still-more radical notion that all the Children will help by contributing in its creation, not just the celestial demiurges. That phrase "though it has been said" when examined carefully reveals one thing and raises the question of another: that the scribe setting down their mythology in the "Ainulindalë" had some doubts about the matter, personally — and who, exactly, was it who was saying this, now? Working "within the fiction," I can imagine Pengolod going over the traditions and writings of Rumil, and thinking to himself in some great library in Tirion, "It all seems so very orderly and rational…but then there are those strange ideas that Turgon's cousin has put forward, which also sound so compelling when you hear him. Of course he's quite mad, but…"  
"—Yes, but I'm right, too" says Finrod genially, replacing a borrowed scroll. And the scribe shakes his head, and keeps writing… (The idea that complete, unrestricted communication is at least in part the key to universal peace and harmony also should not be too surprising, given The Professor's great love of languages.)  


* * *

**vii.**  
launching the Sun: the processes by which Aulë and his followers, Eldar and Ainur, built the celestial orbiters out of the remnants of the Trees' life-energies and got them airborne (a process which some texts suggest took several of what would be later reckoned as years, which is not entirely unreasonable for getting a space-program going from scratch, even for demiurges) is literally unimaginable and at the same time intriguing beyond description — and must have been an incredibly fraught process, given that there wasn't any alternative to fall back on, if they blew it. The passages which describe that first lift-off, even seen from a vast distance, and its potent results, are among the grandest in the whole mythos.  


* * *

**viii.**  
"traditional methods" — these being of course riddles, chess (or dice) matches, and three questions, all of which are fraught and not exactly the sort of information-sources one can well rely on.

Couplesday, sixes: I wanted to point out several facts here: that on the one hand some Mannish culture and traditions survived, even after the Edain were so long and greatly influenced by the Eldar, and that on the other hand such basic things as counting systems and words for reckoning can indicate cultural differences. Beren, being not only mortal but Bëoring, which is to say, belonging to the tribe "most like to" the High-elves in thought, is actually fairly flexible in his thinking, as well as possessed of a very Elvish curiosity, however untrained and rustic his mind may be, due to the disadvantages of his civilization getting obliterated in his youth. (The exact words are "eager of mind, cunning-handed, swift in understanding, long in memory, and moved sooner to pity than laughter" — _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men Into the West.") He can step outside, to a great extent, his own limited experience, and consider it, and others, abstractly — which will come to the fore as the Act unfolds.

Another thing to consider is the distilling or filtering effect which the accidents of history have in what words and systems become common usage, and which are forgotten or left behind. One thing which must have been the case is that a different set of names for the days of the week would have been used before the Darkening, as the current Elvish system used in one form or another throughout Middle-earth reflects that event, memorializing the Trees in their own day, and commemorating the Sun and Moon in others. And, in fact, poking about in the Etymologies _(HOME:LR)_ proves this to be true. "Couplesday" was the day dedicated, interestingly enough, Aulë and Yavanna, as joint patrons of matrimony. (This makes me wonder if they were perhaps the first of the Valar to pair off, while the two most powerful brothers were both courting Varda and Tulkas was still a nobody.)

However, in the First Age, and especially given the separation of the different fiefdoms and domains across Beleriand, it is entirely possible that some of the Noldor would have continued to use the old calendar, and that the new system developed slowly — or even that it was a Valinorean creation of the Eldar there, and only brought to Middle-earth in after years. Or it might well have been, given the progress of events, the one in use in Gondolin, which through its peculiar mix of colonists, their preservation of Quenya lore, and the subsequent consolidation of the surviving refugee populations under the predominance of its ruling family, had a strong and lasting influence on the cultures which followed in Middle-earth. Just as the months and day-names we use today are similar to, and related to, those used in Roman times, but not identical, it's possible that the systems Beren was familiar with were not the same as those employed in the Second and Third Ages, either.

* * *

salt: the equation of that mineral and honesty — often unwelcome — is to be found elsewhere than in the New Testament: it shows up, for instance, in the folk version of King Lear (happy ending) where the virtuous princess compares her filial piety not, as her sisters do, to honey or expensive spices, but to the humble, bitter-tasting condiment. This refusal to play the game of course wins her only exile, a fate which is karmically returned upon her unwise parent. When at long last her impoverished father arrives on the doorstep of the kingdom her wisdom and goodness have won for her, she commands the household to prepare every dish without salt. When he complains about the revolting blandness of it, and comments on the need for something to give the meal savour, the recognition of both the value of directness and the survival of his faithful daughter overwhelm the old, exiled king in a very emotional reunion.

* * *

**ix.**  
Finarfin learning the complete story of his son's Doom only now does not only serve as a source of angst and emotional drama, but is intended to point up not only the questions of communication, and whence information, and when — but also how much any decision, action, and speech is founded in that present, limited knowledge, and how it may take on new, possibly horrifying, significance in the light of subsequent revelations.  


* * *

**x.**  
Aredhel & Eöl: if Saeros/Orgof, provoking Turin from malice, was due many centuries in Mandos to reflect and grow beyond his arrogance _(LB,_ "The Lay of the Children of Húrin," Canto I ) then certainly Eöl would merit no less. Aredhel is of course under the Doom of the Noldor. What the two of them would have been doing over the past decades, and if they would have made any psychological progress or not, is anyone's guess.

* * *

galvorn: the black alloy that Eöl invented and used for his own special lightweight suit of armor _(Silmarillion,_ "Of Maeglin") — which, however, did not protect him from the vengeance of his wife's kinsmen after her killing. (It is amusing, but not particularly likely, to think that it might have been an early form of kevlar.)  


* * *

  
Kinslayer: it is again mere conjecture that Aredhel was also (like Fingon) in the forefront, and joined in the attack on Alqualondë out of a misconception that the Teleri had attacked first (hence the lines "tragic misunderstanding"); but I have based it on her documented long-standing friendship and spiritual affinity for the sons of Fëanor, principally  
Curufin and Celegorm.  


* * *

  
armour: this is yet another dual eference, to Aredhel's fate, daring to face down her alienated spouse without any protection other than injured dignity and righteous wrath, and the presence of guards, none of which are sufficient to cope with the suicidally-violent (as retold in _Silm._ , "Of Maeglin,") — and to _LOTR:FOTR_ , "The Ring Goes South," with Bilbo's giving of his mithril vest to Frodo, to be worn secretly under the outer garments, thereby saving the life of the wearer.

* * *

The Captain's remark concerning the making of weapons in secret refers to the events related in _Silm.,_ "Of the Silmarils," where it is told that:

"…when Melkor saw these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied with  
one another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, for each believed that he alone had received the warning. And Fëanor made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware, and there he tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms with plumes of red. Bitterly did Mahtan rue the day when he taught to the husband of Nerdanel  
all the lore of metalwork that he had learned of Aulë."  


* * *

  
threnody: a sad or melancholy song; a dirge. This and similar obscure musical terms are a semi-humorous answer to the question of what the gods might swear by.

* * *

"avenged upon the lot of you" — an ObRef to _Twelfth Night,_ where a humorless control-freak is made the target of an elaborate comic revenge plot, and vows at the end to get his own back as he storms off in high-dudgeon.

* * *

  
The idea that the more-warlike Powers might practice fighting to keep up their skills and in hopes of a rematch with Morgoth and his minions, however unlikely such a chance might seem to them at present, doesn't seem too far-fetched to me. There is, however, a world of difference between being champion of the All-Valinor Valarin Fencing Club and having successfully fought for one's life — and others — for over four centuries.

* * *

Ringil: the name of Fingolfin's blade is found first in LL1, Canto XII:

 

"Fingolfin like a shooting light  
beneath a cloud, a stab of white,  
sprang then aside, and Ringil drew  
like ice that gleameth cold and blue,  
his sword devised of elvish skill  
to pierce the flesh with deadly chill.  
With seven wounds it rent his foe,  
and seven mighty cries of woe  
rang in the mountains…"

in which it is also told that Grond was the name of Morgoth's mace, the war-hammer of the underworld — a name that will infamously return to haunt Middle-earth again. (It is, I should say, a signal of how much superior the technology of First Age Noldor artisans was to subsequent levels of smithing, that the High King's weapon is recorded as having wounded Morgoth eight times, (on the final stroke permanently laming him), without losing its strength, whereas the Númenórean blade wielded against the Captain of the Nazgûl dissolves on contact with the Ringwraith, as Aragorn indeed had warned would happen should such a stroke occur.)

* * *

  
"By your Lady" — in keeping with the swashbuckling theme, a turn on the medieval exclamation frequently encountered in the old Robin Hood stories, "By'r [Our] Lady," adapted for Arda.

* * *

"Endless Whirlwind" — a Dante ObRef, to the circle outside the Inferno proper, where the traveler meets famous lovers from history who destroyed themselves for the sake of each other, there swept in a continuous tumult like leaves on the wind, always together and never at rest.

* * *

**Scene IV.**

 

The conflicts, large and little, which are apparent or implicit in the Geste are all stated and expounded in this Scene, and given context, hence its length.

* * *

**i.**  
Gower's words invoke not only the frequent references to truth vs. "sooth" in Shakespeare's writings, and the difficult valuing of honesty and directness set against the popularity of flattery, and the ease of self-deception ("When my love swears that she is made of truth/I do believe  
her, though I know she lies…") but also revelations of the devastating kind (often inadvertently-so) like the final words of Mablung to Túrin which moved the latter to self-execution.

The Wassail Song: this Yuletide carol is the "Gloucestershire Wassail," which is datable back to the 1700s but in melodic feel sounds much older, due to its smooth linear progressions and mellow intervals, which resemble those of prior centuries like "Lo How A Rose E'erblooming" and "Of the Father's Love Begotten" rather than the popular music of the 18th. Each of its many verses hails another member of the landholder's household — even the four-legged ones. (This is, after all, a drinking-song.) The words and melody may be found in _The Oxford Book of Christmas Carols,_ (Oxford University Press) which is available in several editions of various size and cost, originally published in 1928.

* * *

Lines 1096 - 1103 of LL1 suggest,  
though allowing room for dispute, that the Ring given to Beren's father was originally made by Finrod's own father, though it is possible that "the badge…that Felagund his son now bore" only refers to the heraldic device, (of the pair of emerald-eyed golden snakes eating a crown of flowers) and not to the signet itself.

* * *

**iii.**  
There's only one canonical, named, _Silm._ character this can logically be. Do not worry if you can't guess it, everything will be made clear by the end of the play.

* * *

**iv.**  
Chess-playing kings staying up late in the old stories (and occasionally gambling away vast fortunes, or worse, on the outcome of the match) make it clear that Solitaire and its variants would have been welcomed in former centuries.

* * *

The story of the forgery of the brooch reflects my thought that it is plausible that there were early forays of Easterling entrepreneurs — traveling traders, explorers looking for resources of various sorts — to bring back the news of those wealthy countries beyond the mountains which lured more enterprising colonists to follow once the political disarray of the hot-war made for likely opportunities.

* * *

Clearly Huan is one of those "spirits" Manwë reminds Yavanna of in _Silm.,_ "Of Aulë and Yavanna," who will come to Arda belatedly from the Timeless Halls (as did Tulkas, remember!) for love, not to do evil, summoned by her thoughts when the time is ripe, to go among the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ and act as guiding forces — and even choose to "dwell therein, and be held in reverence, and their just anger shall be feared." (There are strong indications that Shadowfax, in _LOTR,_ is one also, as it is definitely stated the Eagles are.) But there is  no indication that anyone — certainly not his former master Celegorm — fully realizes this during most of his life. (There are still those who dispute this, and Huan's importance to the mythos. All I have to say to that is — count up the number of similarities between what Huan does, and what Gandalf does, and then decide if it's mere coincidence.)  


* * *

  
Technically the Seneschal of Formenos might also be speaking in an antiquated dialect, having been offed even before the Feast of Reuniting, (by which point everyone was speaking Sindarin as the "lingua franca" of Beleriand, _Silm.,_ "Of the Return of the Noldor") but for dramatic simplicity I chose not to do so; presumably, being very image-conscious, and having been there quite some time, he would equally quickly have adapted his manners to those of newer arrivals so as not to seem out of date or identified with the _ancien regime_.

—I have included these "extras" for the simple reason that someone very like them must have been there, given the enormously high casualties taken in Beleriand by the Noldor, and their chronological and demographic distribution.  
Not only does their presence add an element of conflict, but furthermore a firsthand presentation of different perspectives, untempered by the regrets and allegiances of the retellers.

* * *

ruel: the word is an antiquarian's in-joke, so to speak: it word comes up in the Middle-English usage "ruel-bone," and is employed by Tolkien as well. In the original contexts as well as later usage, it means some kind of ivory, but what kind no one is quite sure of. Because of the suggestive similarity between "ruel" and "rowel" in sound, meaning twisted, I tend to think of it as narwhal horn, which was a valuable commodity provided by Scandinavian mariners to continental Europe in the Middle Ages. Thus my conceit of the mysterious animal "ruel" as unicorns, — and thus solving the question of why they are not in Middle-earth: they are among those creatures never seen outside Valinor, _(Silm_., "Of Eldamar") though there might have been a perished population of them naturalized on Númenor as well. (And yes, wart-hogs are quite friendly and sociable animals and their keepers become very fond of them in zoos.)

* * *

Fëanor made the Silmarils in secret, not asking permission of even Yavanna before seeking to preserve and contain the Light of the Trees in some indestructible format — but his work was approved afterwards upon their revelation. _(Silmarillion,_ "Of the Silmarils.") This did not stop him from hoarding them, dragon-like, or coming to regard them as exclusively and originally "his."  


* * *

  
The question of past and future livelihoods reflects very real problems for those coming back from some long, life-changing experience, whether it be war, hospitalization, or anything else, which would not be fundamentally all that much different even in Valinor. The issues — new, old, and complicated — are going to be there, and must be dealt with. Or, as a much later hero would shrewdly put it, talking of happy endings and characters in the old tales, "And where will they live? That's what I often wonder." _(LOTR:FOTR,_ "The Ring Goes South.")  


* * *

  
"conniptions" — the native languages of the Edain are rather strange and abrupt and not "Middle-earthlike" at first glance, though deep digging into the etymologies and a more structural look at them reveals the root similarities. I've used this peculiar folk idiom to stand in place of the lost Taliska expression for throwing a fit…

* * *

Manir & Suruli: these spirits of air, like those who inhabit water, Maiar who dwell in the skies or oceans, reveal similarities in their nature to the _kami_ of traditional Asian animism as well as to the sylphs, nymphs and water-gods of classical mythology. (Lúthien's dancing before Morgoth is said to have excelled that of the dancers of the air of the court on Taniquetil, which also brings to mind the Hindu mythos' _apsaras,_ the sylphlike maidens of the heavens.) We also meet one of them in _LOTR:FOTR,_ who comes to the rescue when invoked by those who have the right to do so — the river Bruinen. Since it seems that the Powers, greater and lesser, who inhabit these elements take their shape from them when they choose to manifest their consciousness in a visible and tangible form, the problem of  being dead — and what that means among people who don't normally necessarily have bodies — gets sort of complicated in Arda.

* * *

The aesthetics discussion is not really implausible, given the nature of the participants. (Even in our world, and as late as WWII, Prof. Tolkien was called upon by a British officer who was a participant in a heated debate (upon which some significant mess-room bet was riding) to solve the question as to the correct pronunciation of the 18th-century poet Cowper's last name.)


	55. Scene V.iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.iii**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall. Luthien is turning the now-empty cup over and around and spinning it in her fingers while she talks, distractedly, until the Steward discreetly reaches up and takes it back, dismissing it without her even noticing]  
  

Luthien:  
    
It seems so long ago -- an Age -- that we first touched in the dark…  
  
[Finrod starts slightly at her words as she goes on sadly]  
  
It's so far away and small now, that time of moonlight and roses, like a pearl -- you can only look at it from the outside now, and never get back into that radiance again.  
  
[pulling herself together]  
  
But wasn't that silly? Saying that he must have had some Dark sorcery to use on me -- me!  
  
[she shakes her head in scorn; her father's advisor bites his lip, but says nothing]  
  

Finrod: [reluctantly]  
    
Well…  
  

Luthien:  
    
Please don't joke. I'm not up to it now.  
  

Finrod: [pensive]  
    
I'm not.  
  
[she looks at him in wide-eyed dismay and paranoia]  
  

Luthien:  
    
No. No. --Don't you turn against him now, too--  
  

Finrod: [gripping both her hands and giving them a little reassuring shake]  
  
    
Shh. I don't think so in the sense that your parents and people meant it. It's just that there's -- something -- about him -- it isn't just him, his whole family is the same -- was\--  
  
[but goes on almost immediately]  
  
\--but there's some sort of invisible aura about the Beorings which makes it hard not to do what they want, no matter how impossible-seeming it is.  
  
[Aegnor puts his head down on his knees, as glances are directed his way; Luthien continues to look at Finrod flatly and in silence]  
  
One just gets carried away in spite of all one's better sense, thing which cold logic declare insanity start sounding plausible, and -- Luthien, I'm not saying I wouldn't have gone with him, or that you wouldn't, I'm just trying to understand it myself because it's hard to think clearly when someone that certain of things is defining the parameters of the debate.  
  
[pause]  
  
You noticed he was doing it with the Powers as well. Not just arguing with them, but carrying it on his own terms.  
  
[his father and Amarie shake their heads in residual dismay; Luthien does not say anything still.]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
\--Yes, I'm surprised you weren't as upset about that as you were about Bereg doing the same thing.  
  

Finrod: [very definitely]  
    
Bereg didn't do that. He never said anything to me, or to any of us, about his doubts or whom he'd been speaking with of them. He just pretended everything was perfectly fine, said what he thought I wanted to hear, and kept all his discontents for private. I don't know if I could have reassured him -- if anyone could have -- or if things would have turned out the same regardless. --But there most certainly was no hope of any other outcome with him not being willing to question me. The only resemblance between them is that ability to convince others to go along in whatever he came up with, even when it meant going all the way back over the mountains they'd just come over this way, into whatever it was they'd thought worse than mountains to begin with -- or at least which Balan had thought worse than mountains and convinced them all the same.  
  

Angrod:  
    
And Marach -- don't forget, a good number of his people went with Bereg as well.  
  

Finrod:  
    
But more of them didn't. Malach Aradan ruled by popular acclaim -- but he was responsible for getting the tribe's consent in the first place and keeping it. It wasn't ever a settled thing, for him or for the rest of the family--  
  
[with an earnest look from his brothers to his uncle]  
  
\--and think how much worse the Battle would have gone, and afterwards, if Bregor and Hador hadn't instilled their convictions not just in their own children but the rest of their folk as well. Not that it's much consolation, but it could have been an utter rout instead of a partial rout ending in a standoff.  
  
[to his cousin, who is still regarding him in rather a chilly manner:]  
  
I'm not saying it's a bad thing, Luthien -- only that this mortal obduracy is a formidable force to be reckoned with, whether it's on our side or not. Beren isn't any more stubborn than the others of his Houses, on both sides.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Or -- what was her name, that young mortal woman who caused so much fuss not too long ago?  
  
[the other Belerianders stare at him]  
  
[simultaneously (overlapping)]  
    
Everyone from Middle-earth, native or returned:  
    
\--Haleth!!  
  
[there is an embarrassed moment as everyone sort of recollects themselves]  
  

Fingolfin: [defensive]  
    
You must grant, I never met the lady.  
  

Aegnor: [sarcastic aside]  
    
There's a surprise--  
  

Angrod:  
    
Neither did I -- but we still heard about her enough to remember her name, uncle! It wasn't as though there weren't relatives of hers straggling through the realm for the better part of a decade.  
  

Aegnor: [faint amusement]  
    
It was almost like the first years here, where you never knew when you were going to walk into a settlement of strangers giving you funny looks and speaking a language nearly but not quite comprehensible. It was rather hard not to cross Nargothrond and hear the name "Haleth" in the process--  
  

Angrod: [interrupting]  
    
\--But he didn't, don't you recall?  
  
[the Princes shake their heads in too-obvious pity, to their uncle's chagrin]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Yes, annexing part of the kingdom and then telling Mablung off for trespassing--  
  
[to the Valinorean Eldar, living and otherwise]  
  
\--well, you don't know our Captains, so that doesn't mean much to you, but people listen to them, most of the time -- when he came to try to evict them, does sort of stick in people's memory.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not to mention dragging half-a-thousand unwilling kinsmen through a vale full of giant spiders and other assorted monstrosities, and her with no natural abilities whatsoever to help her defend them, and most of them increasingly convinced she was insane for not staying in a land already cultivated and partially settled, because there was "too much open" to the northward. Or commanding a successful defense against the Enemy's minions, when everyone else was on the verge of giving up and dying before rescue arrived -- which was partly the reason they didn't kick her out as chief after the business with the Old Road and the mutant beasts. "The spiders were a mistake," she told me, "I thought they were bogles out of tales to frighten bad children -- or Men who might think of going too close to the Shadowking's woods otherwise."  
  
[shaking his head]  
The way they talked about her, you couldn't tell if they thought she was brilliant, mad, or both -- and that they weren't sure either. But not being around her wasn't an option, any more than for moths about a lit candle.  
  

Amarie: [caustic]  
    
Aye, my lord, and wherefore didst thou not espouse her, for all thy fellowship of the Secondborn? I am astonish't.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [giving her a very askance Look]  
    
I'm already married to you.  
  

Amarie: [wide-eyed]  
    
But -- thou didst declare't null, and didst e'en chide me for that I ne'er did take another consort, or hast forgot so swift thine own words so late-uttered?  
  

Finrod: [getting a little bit flustered]  
    
I -- meant for you, that you shouldn't have considered yourself bound when we never completed the ceremony--  
  

Amarie: [tossing her head]  
    
Now there's a fine thing, fine sir! Wouldst have me as thy grandsire, then, seeking one lord here whilst another bideth there, West or east it mattereth not -- for how might it be, that one should be bound, the other not? 'Tis not of reason, that thou shouldst hold it feasible to bide yet spouse to me, yet I not in equal measure thine to thee!  
  

Finrod: [changing the subject without any finesse, lightly]  
    
It would never have worked, in any case -- she wouldn't have had me regardless, even if she hadn't said that five hundred-odd children were enough for any Man.  
  

Nerdanel: [chiding]  
    
'Tis far from the fitting hour for japery, youngling.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh, I'm not.  
  
[pause -- the Valinorean relatives look at him strangely]  
  
She and her people expressed rather a dim view of us, I'm afraid. Something about the lunacy of those who thought of fighting as fun and spent so much time over weapons.  
  

Fingolfin: [acerbic]  
    
\--Which, you must concede, is most curious when 'tis considered how their lives and livelihoods were thereafter safeguarded in their new homeland by those very weapons and warriors of ours.  
  

Luthien: [aside]  
    
And here I thought it was us. Won't Beleg be surprised--  
  
[the Ambassador also starts to say something, but Finrod makes a pre-emptive quieting gesture]  
  

Finrod: [to Fingolfin]  
    
Well…in a very general way. For a while. And after you died they did a better job of defending the Crossings than what was left of your people -- or mine.  
  
[blandly]  
  
One thing which troubled them a lot, though, was the little bits and pieces they'd heard over the years about Elves fighting Elves and siblings pulling blades on each other.  
  
[Fingolfin rests his forehead on his hand; his living relatives look rather told-you-so at this]  
  
\--But mostly the idea of just going looking for trouble in the first place, instead of away from it.  
  

Captain: [rueful]  
    
"I'm betting that's not much use for firewood, and it's mighty unhandy for a dinner knife" -- her opinion of swords.  
  

Teler Maid: [curious]  
    
Did she really say it like that?  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
No. I can't manage a Brethil accent properly at all.  
  

Finrod: [very dry]  
    
She also had definite things to say on the matter of living in caves, and people who were mad enough to do so. "Underground's for when you're dead, and I'm not yet."  
  
[his relatives think about this, and the several implications of it, with the expressions of people who know they ought not to be amused at the amusing aspect because of the grim]  
  

Warrior: [aside]  
    
On the brighter side -- Nargothrond not overrun with swine and kine.  
  

Teler Maid: [aside, with a dubious Look]  
    
Ought I wish to know what these your words meant?  
  

Warrior: [rueful]  
    
\--Long story.  
  

Luthien: [curiously to Finrod]  
    
Just how much did you leave out of that message to my father?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I very much prefer it when your father isn't angry with me. While I can in no way foresee any of this getting back to him, I'd rather not take that slight, unforeseeable chance.  
  

Luthien: [faint smile]  
    
Hmph. That bad.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It was mostly a matter of style -- and the last time I saw her, following the resettlement project -- which Elu discreetly ignored without overt comment, at least to me--  
  

Luthien: [raising her eyebrows]  
    
You didn't notice him asking you how much faster than we, did mortals grow up?  
  

Finrod:  
    
I said "overt," remember? That was just him letting all know that no one was pulling a fast one on him, even if he wasn't going to haggle over every returning formerly-disaffected tribesman -- anyway, she conceded that he was a pretty good king, all told, as kings went, minding his own business and leaving peaceable folk in peace--  
  
[the Doriathrin lord covers a smile at his words]  
  
\--and they really couldn't ask for better neighbors after all.  
  
[biting his lip]  
  
I just, ah, polished off a few edges: a herald is worthless who can't be trusted to deliver a message as given.  
  

Steward: [dry]  
    
One of several side benefits of serving as your voice, my lord, and not--  
  
[he catches himself, with a quick glance at Nerdanel]  
  
\--anyone else's.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh, there were some pretty sharp comments I sent upriver from time to time, I seem to recall.  
  

Fingolfin: [wincing]  
    
Aye, as do I.  
  

Steward:  
    
But not of themselves scathing, saving as the truth hurts.  
  

Finrod: [grim smile]  
    
\--Like that damnéd dam project I heard about fortuitously, before Fingon actually got started on his brilliant notion to turn my river into a moat around Barad Eithel. Downstream rights, what? The only worse thing you lot could have come up with was damming up at Ivrin.  
  

Fingolfin: [patiently, as to a child]  
    
It wouldn't have left Minas Tirith "high and dry" or even reduced the levels of Sirion by more than one part in the twelve--  
  

Finrod: [cutting him off]  
    
Well, that was your guess. You really don't know what it would have done. And it would have severely affected the marshes and silting along the main watercourse, regardless. I'm not going to get into this now, it's pointless, but I was right.  
  

Fingolfin: [aggrieved]  
    
You didn't have to threaten to have it brought to your sister's attention -- with a careful breakdown of exactly how long at the longest it should take for your messengers to arrive in Menegroth and she in Eithel.  
  
[Finrod looks down and sideways at his erstwhile Herald with a quizzical expression]  
  

Steward: [looking back innocently]  
    
Thus I…polished your injunction to get up there as fast as I might and tell your "idiot relatives that if they dared dream of blundering about with the water volume--"  
  
[Finarfin raises his brows, glancing at his elder brother, but doesn't interrupt; the Sea-elf stifles a giggle by main force]  
  
\--unless you -- or preferably engineers from Nogrod -- were supervising the plans, they'd find out that there were people with less patience and more power than even yourself. Since you had me ahorse and off before I knew whether I had my cloak on right-side-to or not, I was not entirely certain of whom in specific you were thinking, and since I dared not invoke Elu Thingol's power without consultation, nor Lady Melian, (nor dared detour so far as to make such query, nor without your permission) -- still less our great Lord without sign thereto, when for all I knew as yet this rumoured doing was even at his bidding--  
  

Finrod: [snorting]  
    
Oh, right, as if they'd even thought of asking him about it--  
  
[at his uncle's Look]  
  
Sorry.  
  
[to his right-hand Elf:]  
  
\--Did I really send you off in that much of a rush? That was an awfully long time ago.  
  

Steward: [shrugging]  
    
I was obliged to purchase my dinners from fishing parties along the banks, at the cost of new songs, before I attained the Tower and so reprovisioning -- or provisioning, rather, so great was the urgency which you successfully conveyed to me, that I did not turn home to pack before setting out.  
  

Captain: [blandly]  
    
And here you were complaining earlier that I'd done your packing for you--!  
  

Steward: [ignoring him]  
    
\--Where I also, as per your instructions, Majesty, picked up a sufficiently-impressive escort force from your brother (and a change of clothes) and 'twas there, over breakfast, that Prince Orodreth counseled me to invoke the Lady Galadriel when I reached the High King's castle, for such insult as was rumoured planned to your great-uncle's dear friend through his tributary would surely arouse the indignation of Elu's wife and her own friends, and as your loyal -- if independent -- agent abroad, your sister's duty might be bespoken without prior consulting. --Though I should surely face some pointed ironies, did necessity come to it and oblige me to convey the request to Doriath. But neither your brother nor I thought it a likely outcome, and I judged the advice sound.  
  

Angrod: [incredulous]  
    
You just threatened to sic Artanis on him, with no qualms whatsoever? On your own recognizance? That's a bit much, didn't you think?  
  

Fingolfin: [wry]  
    
Indeed.  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
I don't know why everyone is so intimidated by 'Tari -- there are other people in our family with far less control over their tempers and less discretion!  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, actually, I think that's part of it, Sire -- that, and the fact that unlike some of her siblings, she does little-to-nothing to temper her power and try not to intimidate people around her.  
  

Angrod: [piqued aside]  
    
\--I'm sure there was an insult in that -- or three.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Galadriel doesn't try to intimidate people!  
  

Captain:  
    
Exactly, my lady.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Neither do the lords of the Edain, by and large. It's the combination of absolute certainty that this is simply how things ought be done, convincing everyone else of it -- and managing to carry it off five times out of six so they stay convinced.  
  
[Luthien frowns, troubled, but not having anything to say to this -- someone else does, however]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Indeed, Majesty, one might deem them nearly equals of the Noldor, in that respect.  
  
[long, long pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
…  
  
[the expectant pause continues, while people either look at Finrod or each other or the ceiling -- even Huan takes a break from demanding nose-scratching and raises his head with pricked ears to look at the youngest of the Kings present]  
  

Finrod:  
    
My lord, I -- concede your point.  
  
[pause]  
  
What?  
  
[as everyone keeps looking at him]  
  
There's nothing else to say -- except -- guilty as charged.  
  
[this encourages another to make a sally at him]  
  

Fingolfin: [very dry]  
    
Did you not remark, my young nephew, that by his own admission your liegeman has averred him to hold your younger sister a greater than you, his liege? For your words were "those with more power than yourself" --and Galadriel his answer.  
  
[Finrod leans over again and gives his friend an inquiring Look, full of low-key amusement]  
  

Steward: [easily]  
    
Indeed, 'tis true -- considering "more power" in the most narrow of senses, or else to say, who might by virtue of nature and ability and circumstance have been the ablest at accomplishing your set task -- even as the warrior on watch and wakeful has more power than one inattentive, notwithstanding though one be little more than a child and the other of many Great Year's practice. Power -- is a present and transient thing, resting with whomsoever wills to wield it -- I do not speak of potentiality, which some authorities term latent power, but which itself is subject to divisions of kind as in degree, even as set forth long ago by Rumil in "Of Modes and--  
  
[Fingolfin raises his hands for silence, equal parts plea, command, and capitulation]  
  

Captain: [regretful]  
    
Too fast to stake a wager.  
  

Angrod: [patronizing]  
    
Uncle, you should know better by now than to start a duel of words with him. That's as useless as challenging Beleg to an archery contest -- oh, that's right, you never called on Menegroth, sorry--  
  
[the brother and sister-in-law of the High King of Beleriand exchange deploring-but-amused glances]  
  

Luthien: [unexpectedly taking Fingolfin's side]  
    
Oh, give him a break -- at least your uncle was polite when he happened to think of us, unlike some of your family I could name but won't out of respect for the present company since everyone keeps snapping at me to stop being rude--  
  
[she startles and looks down at the Hound, who is being a loyal canine friend and showing his emotional support in a traditional way by licking her foot]  
  
Oh! Huan, stop that, it's disgusting even if you mean it kindly.  
  
[she scratches his ears]  
  

Teler Maid: [insistent curiosity]  
    
Who? Who wasn't polite?  
  

Nerdanel: [resigned]  
    
Mine own offspring.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Anyway, getting back to my story--  
  
[aside]  
  
\--and not conceding anything to anyone about anything--  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--in retrospect, the part about that time that was truly strange was what didn't happen -- that neither my mother nor Daeron said anything at all for so long. --Did she know? It seems as though she must have, though she won't answer me about that. Daeron thought she did, he said so.  
  
[outraged]  
  
And he acted all perfectly normal to me and everyone, only being preoccupied, while it came out in this pall of silence that gradually filled up all around Menegroth and made everyone wonder what kind of weird supernatural phenomena was going on that summer. Except it was just his internalized gloom and guilt and angst smothering everything subconsciously.  
  
[with an exasperated wave of her hand]  
  
It's -- all so -- so sneakingly dishonest. Looking back on it all, after everything else that's happened -- I'd far rather have to deal with someone who simply wants to hurt me for uncomplicated selfish purposes, instead of justifying it as being for my own good, or insisting that I have to forgive them because they're miserable too, poor things, as if it wasn't their own faults.  
  
[darkly]  
  
I should have set my own conditions, called down Fate on my side, before going back home -- made them do some impossible task before I'd give in -- maybe then they wouldn't talk so lightly about how much they were suffering--  
  
[the Ambassador bows his head in apology]  
  

Finrod: [deadly earnest]  
    
Don't even joke about such things.  
  

Finarfin: [aside]  
    
Nay, thus have they learned, most bitter and full, or Time hath sundered more than speech betwixt us!  
  
[there is an awkward moment, with neither Luthien nor the Finarfinions quite knowing what to say, far less anyone else.]  
  

Elenwe: [looking at Nerdanel thoughtfully]  
    
\--Thus the course of nature, that love should e'er will self's cessation, ere that of them belovéd -- but dark rumour, that hath entwined even through the 'stices of my dreams, though of's truth I ken nor more nor less than ye, hath muttered of a burning shame; whose occasion, for all that 'twas set upon that Shore that ne'er I saw, save as a shadow undersetting distant flame, was yet kindled on this side -- nor hath regretted it.  
  
[the moment that follows this observation is even more awkward. Abruptly Huan lifts his head, with a few restrained tail thumps]  
  

Huan:  
    
[quiet almost-bark]  
  
[Nienna's Apprentice comes in, alone this time again, his shoulders rather slumped and no spring in his step as he comes towards the dais.]  
  

Finrod: [sharply]  
    
I think they're all at the Mahanaxar now.  
  

Apprentice: [glum]  
    
I know they are. He took all the information over there because it made more sense than walking and wasting all that time -- and coincidentally, all the credit as well. I guess it isn't really important who gets it, but it still stings.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Then what are you here for?  
  
[with a grimace and snort of restrained anger]  
  
Couldn't you have mentioned  
what you were up to before, so that we weren't completely blindsided by it?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I -- what--?  
  

Finrod: [flinging up his hands]  
    
That you were gathering a dossier on Beren, what else?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Oh. I--  
  
[he looks at the Captain with worry]  
  
Was that the sort of thing you wanted to know?  
  
[the Ranger shakes his head in disbelief, while his commander sighs.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Yes. But--  
  
[he looks at Finrod]  
  
It didn't actually make any difference, one way or another, Sire. Not on the outcome of the debate. It just added details.  
  
[to the disguised Maia]  
  
Something concrete to be used against our efforts, or against our covert aim, that was very much the sort of thing you should have been bringing to our attention as a double agent. Unless it was utterly against your conscience to do so. But I think you were just naive.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Used against…?  
  
[he looks baffled and upset]  
I thought -- that knowing all the facts about your friend in such detail would be a good thing, since everyone would be able to see the things I saw in our conversation, not just being a useless, incompetent oaf with an insolent mouth.   
  
[hastily]  
  
\--Not my words. Curumo's.  
  

Finrod: [to the Captain]  
    
You're right. As usual. --Naive.  
  
[he sighs]  
  
So what are you doing here?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I wanted to offer my sympathies to her Highness, it -- seemed appropriate, since my Master isn't present to to do so herself -- on the loss of your husband.  
  
[he bows his head to Luthien]  
  

Luthien: [dangerously]  
    
He's staying with me. I know it--  
  
[putting her hand to her chest]  
  
\--here. He'll come back.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
…  
  

Finrod: [short]  
    
All right, you've done that, so why don't you go now?  
  
[Huan lifts his head and gives the youngest Elf-King a reproachful look]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Actually, I was going to stay here and keep an eye on the stone again. There's nothing else for me to do now.  
  
[he sits down cross-legged on the upper tier of the dais, close to the Thrones, and rests his chin on his hand, watching the still-quiescent palantir, quite oblivious to (or ignoring) Finrod's piqued, over-the-shoulder glare]  
  

Captain:  
    
Aren't you supposed to be looking after things generally for Themselves?  
  

Apprentice: [shrugs]  
    
After that screech -- which must have shaken windows all the way to Taniquetil -- and the shouting that followed it, everyone's showing remarkably good sense in having apparently decided to lay low for a bit, that now is not the time to be complaining to the Lord and Lady about someone looking at them sideways seventy-two years ago--  
  
[from the hallway outside an angry voice can be heard raised and coming nearer quickly]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Isn't there anyone here with authority? I demand to speak to Lord Namo -- at once!  
  
[Fingolfin winces. The rest of the company exchange looks alternately bewildered, amused, or resigned]  
  

Apprentice: [glumly]  
    
Of course, there are always exceptions.  
  
[the High King's daughter comes striding into the chamber and over to the dais, anger crackling all around her like wet wood on fire -- Huan lifts up his head, pricking up his ears, and wags his tail, but she ignores him along with everyone except the High King her father. Amarie makes an exclamation of disgust, looking as though this is pretty nearly the final straw, and very obviously refuses to grant Aredhel her attention.]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Where are they? Why can't I find anyone? This is ridiculous!  
  

Fingolfin: [pleading in the weary tone of one who knows it's useless]  
    
'Feiniel--  
  

Aredhel:  
    
I refuse to put up with this any longer! I want an injunction against him! You do something about it, Father--  
  

Warrior: [aside to the Fourth Guard]  
    
He must have gotten her again.  
  
[his friend nods]  
  

Fingolfin: [patiently]  
    
Daughter, I haven't authority over your husband -- I hadn't in life, and not in here either. Besides, you know--  
  
[in the background Eol enters, the embodiment of cynicism in black armour, and comes up quietly to stand a little ways behind her, relishing the negative Looks from those who notice his presence.]  
  

Aredhel: [cutting him off]  
    
No, you just don't care about anything except your blasted board-games!  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Niece, thou dost most discourteously disrupt thy kinswoman's tale--  
  

Aredhel: [impatient]  
    
I'm not talking to you.  
  
[back to her father again]  
  
\--You're so insensitive and selfish! It's all your fault anyway: if you hadn't insisted on dragging us with you on your revenge quest, none of this would have happened, and I'd still be alive!  
  

Angrod: [dry]  
    
Really? You mean you'd have gone back with him if he'd joined my father at Araman? Because I seem to remember you saying we three were idiots for not taking Cel up on the offer of a ride -- not that we should have turned back from the Crossing.  
  
[she lifts her head defiantly and ignores him, going right on]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
I'm going to insist that Lord Namo give me an injunction against him, and that he enforce it this time--  
  

Eol:  
    
Against you, you mean? You'll just break it again.  
  
[she spins around and glares at him, while he just stands there with folded arms, head cocked to one side, sneering.]  
  

Aredhel: [giving him a dark, undershot Look]  
    
You\--  
  
[at a loss for insults, she clenches her fists as he chuckles]  
  

Luthien: [to her other cousins]  
    
Do they do this all the time?  
  
[answering nods; Finarfin and Nerdanel exchange Looks while Aredhel's father sighs]  
  

Soldier: [undertone]  
    
\--Six.  
  

Second Guard: [same tone]  
    
\--Four. --Which?  
  

Eol:  
    
You know you can't stay away from me.  
  

Soldier: [still quietly]  
    
\--Him. Love.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Don't flatter yourself, Moriquendo.  
  
[Fingolfin stares up at the ceiling, clearly humiliated but not able to flee in front of his brother and sister-in-law, far less his nephews.]  
  

Warrior: [aside to his companions]  
    
I say hate.  
  

Finrod: [deadpan]  
    
Isn't family a wonderful thing?  
  
[Luthien stifles an edged snicker, as their relatives, living and dead, give them wary looks]   
  

Eol: [maddeningly patronizing]  
    
Let's just look at your record, why don't we, dear? What'll this be, number two-hundred-eighty-seven? Soon to be a double gross, in fact.  
  

Aredhel: [savage]  
    
Shut up.  
  

Angrod: [getting annoyed]  
    
I want to hear the rest of the story. --Not this rot again.  
  
[the quarreling spouses ignore him]  
  

Eol:  
    
Why, if you'd only been able to control yourself, we might not be in this absurd mess you've gotten us into.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
I!?!  
  

Eol: [smug]  
    
Of course. You couldn't resist the thought of seeing me again, and so you put yourself in the middle of what didn't concern you.   
  

Aredhel:  
    
Didn't concern me?!  
  

Eol: [haughty]  
    
My son's punishment properly being my concern.  
  

Aredhel: [furious]  
    
He's more my son than he is yours, since you never cared to do your part while he was young -- you always had more important work to do--!  
  

Eol: [getting really angry]  
    
Don't start that again -- you kept parental authority to yourself with such jealous control, I hardly got to know him at all. Just another example of Noldor aggression, taking not only our land but our very children from us--  
  
[the two lunge for each other's throats like predators battling over a contested kill--]  
  

Huan:  
    
[agitated barking]  
  
[--but though they collide simultaneously the motive is not quite the same; Aredhel cuffs her husband so hard across the side of the head that he is staggered a little, but he is in the process of grabbing her to him in a passionate "Gone With The Wind" style kiss and isn't deterred. This clinch goes on for much more than an instant, with the White Lady showing no signs of pushing the Dark Elf away, while their audience reacts in a spectrum from embarrassed resignation to awed amusement -- the gamblers are rather nonplused]  
  

Soldier:  
    
Whoa, that's never happened before. I -- don't know how to call that one.  
  

First Guard:  
    
Me neither. Sir?  
  
[they look towards the Captain, who only raises hands and eyebrows in bemusement]  
  

Eol:  
    
!!!  
  
[he flings her off of him and himself away from her, his expression contorted in self-contempt]  
  
\--What Dark magic makes me unable to resist you, you sorceress?  
  

Aredhel:  
    
You spiderling -- how dare you--!  
  
[she draws her sword and starts for him, her eyes blazing with fury; groans and expressions of exasperation from the Ten and their hereditary lords. Luthien stands up and scowls at her combative relations]  
  

Luthien: [crossly]  
    
All right, that's enough!  
  
[there is a slight echo of power to her words, but the two stop and stare at her at once.]  
  
Either go away now, or sit down, be quiet and stop acting like you're thirty.   
  
[in the shocked silence, Elenwe gives a sudden laugh. Aredhel tosses her head angrily]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
You can't tell me what to do. You're not Queen here.  
  

Luthien: [narrowing her eyes]  
    
Funny, I seem to be doing it all the same. --Put that sword up now. And you\--  
  
[turning her attention to Eol]  
  
\--what is wrong with you, cousin? We always knew there was something seriously askew, but nobody dreamed you were a secret Kinslayer and slave-taker!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Don't call me "thrall," you hick!  
  
[Huan growls, while there is a collective wince from their onlooking families]  
  

Luthien: [ignoring her]  
    
Why are you so -- so messed-up? Did you swear service to the Lord of Fetters? What is it that makes you so Dark-hearted? You've got a lot to answer for, Eol!   
  

Eol: [looking her directly in the eyes]  
    
Ah, the little princess fancies herself all grown up, does she? Finally realized that the big world out there isn't all sweetness and light? The answers aren't as simple as Mum and Dad would like them to be?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Don't change the subject. You've done appalling things and you don't seem to have the slightest idea how horrible they are.  
  

Eol: [his voice and stare mesmerizing, edged with power]  
    
So little Luthien is still the know-it-all darling of Doriath…or is she? We've been betrayed, haven't we? Seen a few things we wished we hadn't, I fancy. --Learned that the people we trusted to have all the answers haven't the slightest clue, can't lead us out of the trap by its threads, and that there's no escape -- except being strong, and alone.  
  

Luthien: [wry]  
    
No actually, that's not the conclusion I came to at all.  
  

Eol: [ironic & patronizing]  
    
So you still think that everything's good, that "whatever comes is for the best," and the roaring chaos of the Sun is just as pleasant as the peaceful shade our land once knew -- and the people who brought it with them by their misdeeds?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I'm as much Eldar as you, Eol, and prefer the stars and moon to broad daylight. So does my husband, as it happens. But you never liked music. In all the years I remember you, you never once made any song. --Was there ever any harmony in your house, cousin?  
  
[Aredhel smiles bitterly]  
  
I've asked you questions, Eol. Don't try to put me off with your superior manner, I'm not impressed.   
  
[he glares more fiercely at her, and she gives it right back]  
  

Eol: [bewildered aside]  
    
You're a child, and no mighty "Elf of Aman" Why isn't it working?  
  

Finrod: [mildly]  
    
Perhaps the fact that she's also half-Ainur has something to do with it?  
  
[Eol and Luthien continue to match stares -- it is Luthien who is holding her elder kinsman now, very definitely, and his expression growing more and more strained under her fixed gaze.]  
  

Luthien: [sad]  
    
I'm sorry.  
  
[tears are starting down her face again, but there is no uncertainty or weakness in her voice]  
  
You should have asked for help.  
  

Eol: [clipped]  
    
I neither wanted nor needed your parents' pity.  
  

Luthien: [matter-of-fact]  
    
I wish I could help you.  
  

Eol:  
    
I won't take yours either, girl.  
  

Luthien: [same tone]  
    
I know.  
  
[she releases him from her stare and looks at Aredhel]  
  
That isn't how love works. You've got it all twisted up between you, like the things that live along the Edges of the Labyrinth. You've got to untangle this poisoned chain, or you'll never be able to love, either.  
  

Aredhel: [scoffing]  
    
As if you know anything about it!  
  

Luthien: [calm]  
    
Listen and learn, then, if you will.  
  
[she sits down on the steps again, disregarding them; but although the couple glare warily at each other, like strange dogs circling for a fight, they do not go after each other again, but stiffly find places on the steps of the dais, far apart. Luthien is unconscious of the awed character of the silence that surrounds her on all sides as she resumes]  
  
\--Okay, where was I?  



	56. Scene V.iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the effect of this and the animations which succeed it is an IMAX theatre, only not photographic, but an Impressionist painting done in stained-glass -- brilliant, jewel-like colors lit from within, but no black outlines.)]

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.iv**

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: Taniquetil]  
  
[Beren is standing squarely in front of the Thrones, looking rather overwhelmed and shell-shocked but still with a hopeless, manic resolution to carry through to the end. Manwe and Varda are looking at him with a quicksilver-blue glistening of awareness in their eyes, making them alive and disconcertingly unstatue-like. From time to time, meteoric lights flash past in the surrounding Night, and the Constellations of the star-dome pivot very slowly and steadily throughout the scene.]  
  

Beren:  
    
So, that's pretty much everything.  
  
[he snorts, looking back over his shoulder towards the Stair]  
  
Did you make it take so long so that I'd have to cool down before I got here? 'Cause it only ended up giving me more time to think about what all I wanted to say.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Your last question makes no sense to us, I fear.  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
I'm just interested in the other ones, really. What about the Doom, first of all?  
  

Manwe:  
    
The Noldor spurned our help, and refused to lend theirs to the World.  
  

Beren: [ironic]  
    
I thought they came and helped save it.  
  

Varda:  
    
Have they saved it, then?  
  
[silence]  
  
What would have been possible, if they had been patient but a little, and lent their abilities to the effort of restoration, instead of leaving the wreckage of their anger and mad haste to mingle with the ruin of their adversary's deeds? What might have been made, and how much sooner, of Light to halt and subdue Melkor's forces, perchance to follow more swiftly than marchers afoot, and with wisdom to guide and not to learn in pain and obstinacy the lessons of war, and our power to assist in subtle effort, theirs to wield, ours to give, in one union of will and friendship and both made stronger by bitter trial, now kindled anew?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Well? What?  
  

Manwe: [shaking his head]  
    
None shall ever know. That hope and chance they robbed from us, and you, and from themselves, when the Noldor made Feanor's choice their own, and refused generosity even to their own most near. How many elses might the War, that you believe so long, have gone? --more swiftly and perhaps to happier end -- had all, and not only some, of those who left thought better, and returned to lend their strength to the fashioning of these new Lamps, and after?  
  
[behind the Thrones as he speaks there can be seen the orb of the Moon gliding by, not as quickly as the meteoric lights, large as when it rises in the sky but not orange, silver-white and looking like a slightly-flawed pearl, with a faint rainbow-haloing of ice crystals as it passes under the stars on its Westward, downward trajectory out of sight beneath the window-walls of the Hall.]  
  

Beren:  
    
I get it. You mean you couldn't do anything else. So you're not all powerful, huh?  
  

Varda: [with a narrow Look and sounding a very little bit like Vaire]  
    
You know that perfectly well.  
  
[when the mortal doesn't reply]  
  
\--Don't you? Didn't the King's son tell your people so, or did I mishear him?  
  
[her consort reaches over and takes her hand, soothingly, and she stops, shaking her head a little]  
  

Manwe:  
    
There are always options. They are not always preferable.  
  

Beren:  
    
Maybe you should've let us decide that for ourselves.  
  

Manwe:  
    
I'm afraid you cannot imagine what happens, when Powers contend within these Circles.  
  

Beren:  
    
I know a lot about war. And the destruction it causes.  
  

Manwe: [sighing]  
    
As I said, I fear you cannot imagine what I am trying to convey.  
  

Varda: [still slightly edged tone]  
    
Or perhaps he just doesn't think.  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay, so I let you off for not fixing things after Morgoth broke loose and all, on account of you didn't have the resources to do it or you weren't sure you could do it without making things worse, I'll take your word for that. So -- what did you go and let him out for? I mean, you might not be all-powerful, but at least you're supposed to be wiser than we are. We wouldn't have trusted him again.  
  

Manwe:  
    
You believe yourself wiser than him you name Wisdom, then?  
  
[Beren just glares at him]  
  
You would not have forgiven a kinsman who professed repentance, and demonstrated it in his deeds as well as words, to whom your heart inclined you to welcome, and to hope, and to believe that long reflection on the harmful choices and the better ways had done its healing work, so that the long-remembered, long-cherished love that had once been between you should be renewed at last -- but so Finrod forgave his own, with less earthly warrant and witness, and with the memory of past treason to warn, when for us no such thought of betrayal, of thought uttered counter to heart's true thought, had ever yet been conceived -- or done -- amongst us. We did not know who, or how many he had suborned, until the deed of Darkness was complete.  
  

Varda:  
    
Past sight is always clearest, but the present may not be clearly illumined by it. We trusted, and were scorned for it, by Melkor -- and by his aptest students of both kindreds.  
  
[there is a bare tinge of anger in her voice, but enough to make Beren straighten up and step back just a little]  
  

Beren:  
    
But couldn't you -- um -- just know he was lying? Just -- read his mind?  
  

Manwe:  
    
No. If even yours, saving as you permit it, is inviolate to perception, how might not the same be true of my elder, and mightier in his conception than even I? Only suspicion, among some, and doubt that such a long-lasting and profound will to power and destruction might not be so swiftly turned by meditation -- but suspicion is not proof, and may not justly be acted upon. Always had Melkor been the most open and unsubtle of Voices, both in the Timeless Halls and in the World, in addition to his efforts in the Song. We had no reason to guess that it was otherwise.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
So why couldn't the One just tell you so that you wouldn't have to guess?  
  

Manwe:  
    
He does. It is not easy even for me to understand His thought, thus enformed as we are within our realm, through the limits placed by the different interfaces and frequencies of -- excuse me, to hear through the borders of the Circles, those messages of counsel from the Timeless Halls, and then to discern what the correct application of them should be.  
  

Beren:  
    
So why can't you leave and check and come back?  
  
[the Lord of the Winds leans forward, very earnest]  
  

Manwe:  
    
Beren. This is the World.  
It is not a game. Our mistakes are real because everything is real, because all of it matters. You want it to be a game, where a judge or parent might step in and declare this cast of the dart unfair, that ill-stepped leap not to count against the score, allow another tune be chosen when the young singer has outreached ability, warn a contestant of impending error, always undoing \-- in pretense -- what has been done, for the sake of mercy even more than justice, so that all shall be pleased with the ending of the contest, win or lose. You ask that Arda be no more than a toy, a game, a hobby of Immortals, but unfortunately or not, it is real and we are bound to it forever, as truly as all who breathe within its Circles. We cannot stop playing for a little while.  
  

Beren: [shaking his head]  
    
That isn't what I said.  
  

Manwe:  
    
I am afraid that it is. Be assured, I understand the wish. Often.  
  
[he sighs heavily, leaning back in his Throne]  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, couldn't you have figured out on your own about not bringing the Elves all the way across the world to here? Then, for one thing, your brother wouldn't have been able to tell them that you were trying to replace them with us and then they wouldn't have had any reason to rebel, or any place to rebel to, right? So there wouldn't ever have been any Kinslaying or anything.  
  

Manwe: [to his wife, in a slightly-wry tone]  
    
Do you remember being that young and optimistic, love?  
  

Varda:  
    
Yes.  
  
[she sighs -- then snaps out of it and says matter-of-factly to Beren]  
  
So. When the Hunter from beyond the Sea heard the Children's song, he should not have gone among them, should not have lead them west to a new homeland?   
  

Beren: [sarcastic]  
    
That would follow from what I said, wouldn't it?  
  

Manwe:  
    
He and his kinfolk should not have taught them new lore and art, nor the skills that allowed them to thrive in greater health and strength than they had previously known?  
  

Beren:  
    
That's what I said. And you're leaving out all the problems it caused the Elves.  
  

Varda:  
    
We were not speaking of the Firstborn.  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren:  
    
N--no.  
  
[shaking his head fiercely]  
  
You're twisting it all around--  
  

Manwe:  
    
How so?  
  

Beren:  
    
It -- for us -- it was different.  
  

Varda:  
    
How?  
  

Beren:  
    
It just was.  
  
[Pause]  
  
He didn't tell us it was perfectly safe -- we knew there was a War going on, and we knew the Enemy was there and out to get us all.  
  

Varda:  
    
Naturally -- the world had changed, and so that was then the truth in your people's day.  
  

Beren:  
    
But the Enemy sneaked through and committed murder anyway, and wrecked the land.  
  

Varda:  
    
Yes. We are most favorably impressed.  
  

Beren:  
    
? ? ?  
  

Varda:  
    
Despite all that, your people remained faithful, and did not turn from your foreign lords in anger and outrage at their newly-revealed weakness, but stayed beside them through the bitter dark that has followed, as loyal as the Vanyar to us. Not even Melkor's murder of your father served to turn your heart against the Eldar.   
  
[momentarily speechless, Beren makes a cutting gesture before finding his voice]  
  

Beren: [roughly]  
    
You're twisting things around again.  
  

Manwe:  
    
If you would be consistent, you must allow it equally error on the part of your friend and his folk to interfere with the destiny and quality of life of your people, as for us to meddle with the fortunes of his own -- folly, if well meant, and ultimately no less ruinous to those 'twas meant to aid.  
  

Beren: [almost shouting]  
    
Don't say that! He--  
  
[breaks off, upset]  
  

Varda:  
    
Do you not admit that the problem of the Eldar and the problem of the Edain are one in nature?  
  

Beren: [grim]  
    
No.  
  
[silence. Across the prismatic dome overhead and around, an aurora borealis gradually appears, arcs for a while during the following exchanges, and flickers away]  
  
Because I don't want it to be true.  
  
[pause]  
  
Look, I know it's dumb and wrong, but I just can't. --Besides, that's not where the problems start. Whether you blame it on the Silmarils themselves or some of the Elves staying behind or whatever, the real issue is the fact that there are monsters and demons and diseases and an evil god running around loose to cause all these troubles. If you made the world, why can't you just change it so that things like that can't happen?  
  

Manwe: [mildly]  
    
Because to do so would unmake the World.  
  

Beren:  
    
I don't see that.  
  
[unison]  
    
Varda:  
Manwe:  
    
We know.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Look, your explanations aren't, and I don't have answers for your answers -- but how about something I do understand damn' well? Let me give you the problem on a smaller scale, where maybe we can both agree on it: where is the justice in Tinuviel having to suffer and risk her life and lose her happiness and lose her life because of me? She wasn't Noldor, she didn't choose one way or the other to follow you or not to follow, she didn't rebel against you, and all the same she got caught by the Doom, and if it isn't that you all are mad at Thingol for marrying her mother, and made him ask for a Silmaril to punish him by having her die--  
  

Manwe: [bemused]  
    
\--What a curious notion--  
  

Beren:  
    
\--which wouldn't be fair to her, or anybody else in Doriath either, then surely you could have changed something to make it so that I didn't run into her and none of this every happened. Something. Anything. At least you could have protected her from me.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Any fate you would find a better, than for you to find the daughter of Melian, and she to follow you?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah.  
  
[the blue-black night sky slowly takes on an angry reddish hue, as rising flames lick up from along several points on the horizon, and thereby define edges of forest margin and steep hillsides in the dark. (Note: the effect of this and the animations which succeed it is an IMAX theatre, only not photographic, but an Impressionist painting done in stained-glass -- brilliant, jewel-like colors lit from within, but no black outlines.)]  
  
[To one side of the Thrones, where the images run between them and Beren, misshapen shadowy figures bearing torches spill out from the darkness into a rough circle; dark tents and standards with skulls (real and painted) and images of ravens and wolves' heads are revealed by the flickering light. Typical barbarian-warlord/evil-sorcerer's encampment. From the nearest tent emerges an ominous tall armoured, cloaked figure, (typical barbarian-warlord/evil-sorcerer) who stands expectantly in the midst of his minions as the crowd parts to allow a new group to enter]  
  

Manwe:  
    
In this ending, you do not arrive in Doriath.  
  
[the newcomers are a squad of enormous wolves, several with riders, one of them a pale blue-gray, and not ridden. One of the riders does not do so voluntarily, being draped over the Warg's back, bound hand and foot (and arm and knee, for good measure) until the nearest Orc pulls him off and drops him face down on the ground. Their commander walks over slowly, standing there for a moment before booting the prisoner over onto his back. Even without sound, the gloating still comes through, followed by some predictably-imprudent defiance, judging from the way the guards start hauling their mortal captive upright. The camera swings to focus on Beren and the Valar, so that we don't actually see what happens next, only the burning hillsides on the other walls, while Beren keeps watching apparently completely unfazed by it]  
  

Beren: [utterly blasé]  
    
Huh. Guess I did get him that time after all.  
  

Varda:  
    
Such a fate does not daunt you?  
  
[he turns back to face the Thrones]  
  

Beren: [shrugging]  
    
It's only what I expected.  
  

Manwe:  
    
And for all your efforts to avoid it, you find it preferable to that which was?  
  

Beren: [levelly]  
    
If that had happened -- she would still be alive. And Huan. And Finrod, and the noblest lords of Nargothrond. And a whole bunch of other people in Doriath. No one I loved would have died because of me.  
  

Varda:  
    
It is too late for that, at this stanza. Those who trusted in your ability to defy our rival and to defend them, against all reason, and left their hiding places and rekindled the flame of defiance against Melkor, and were ground into the ashes of their holdings -- are they no one, then? You survived that disastrous rising, but what of those who believed, and were taught the error of their faith by the Lord of Wolves?  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren:  
    
That -- it -- it wasn't--  
  
[he breaks off. In a choked tone]  
  
You're not being fair.  
  

Varda: [calm]  
    
What is in error? That your remnant people died? Or that they did so the sooner, because of your provocation? Or that you loved them?  
  
[long pause]  
  

Beren: [grinding out the words]  
    
All right. I made mistakes too. That can't be the only way.  
  
[the fiery glow changes to a calmer light -- the sun is rising over a green valley, over which in the background loom shining mountain peaks; on one of these can be seen the spires of a slightly-alien-looking but mostly traditional castle. Far off there is still a dark smudge on the horizon even as the sky rapidly becomes blue. In the foreground is a fairly-Viking-looking village, with carved painted pillars and gables on the houses, and fields all around either plowed or full of livestock. Lots of horses. A stream runs through the middle of the vale. Deer drink at it; broad-winged hawks circle overhead.]  
  

Manwe:  
    
Yet another ending, to your story, then--  
  
[up the road to the village comes a rider on a gorgeous steed, cantering to one of the farmhouses, from which charge several tow-headed children of different heights and both sexes, but all equally enthusiastic enough to make it a good thing the picture is without sound; they are followed almost instantly by two tall women with braided hair, one gold, the other silver, who join in the mobbing of the returned horseman -- whose clothes, even in the impressionistic rendering, certainly are not a mismatched collection of rags. As the traveler, gesturing back towards the distant tower, is welcomed home by three generations of family, and his children pile onto the horse heading towards a barn, while wife and mother lead him into the house, Beren turns a stricken countenance to the Lord and Lady.]  
  

Beren:  
    
Is this real? Is that what would have happened, if I'd gone instead of staying?  
  

Varda:  
    
We cannot tell. It could have been.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Is this the story that would content you, the ending rightfully yours, of which your Doom has cheated you?  
  

Beren: [softly, shaking his head]  
    
No. --No\--  
  
[he is distraught and nearly in tears]  
  

Varda: [faintly curious]  
    
You would not hesitate to change your past for an earlier and more painful death -- yet you are of divided mind regarding a change that might have granted a full and happy life according to your people's measure. Do you not think that a strange thing?  
  

Beren:  
    
I -- I--  
  
[he lifts his hand helplessly]  
  
I wouldn't have known Tinuviel then. I wouldn't ever have known -- what else the world could be.  
  
[pause]  
  
I know that doesn't make any sense. Everything else that way is the same. Nobody else gets hurt. But if I had just died fighting, I wouldn't -- I wouldn't think that was the best that it could be -- I wouldn't have missed anything. It -- it seems worse, to have lived without ever realizing what more there was.  
  
[he bites his lip, and shakes his head again, half-laughing, half-crying]  
  
I guess it would have been better if I was never born at all.  
  

Varda:  
    
Truly?  
  
[he nods, his expression grim]  
  
You know, then, better than the One, who should exist in Arda?  
  

Beren:  
    
I didn't say that.  
  

Varda:  
    
Did you not?  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren: [sullen]  
    
\--Only for me. Because of what happened because of me.  
  

Manwe:  
    
But there are so many other possibilities. What if you had died to guard your companions on their way to join your kin of Hador? What if you had gone at once to Nargothrond with news of your father's death, instead of remaining to wage war alone? Or if Elwe's daughter had never found you in the forest -- how many long years in peace would you have stayed? Each one a different story. Would all those truly have been so much worse than not having lived at all? What of the lives you did save, the fugitives you did guard who escaped to other lands?  
  
[Beren scowls, but doesn't answer]  
  

Varda:  
    
You would ordain the world according to your certainty. But have you no consideration for the way that Luthien would rather have things Be? Would her ideal Song have no mortal note of yours?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
It would still be better for her if she hadn't met me.   
  
[the Starqueen just Looks at him]  
  
What?  
  
[still waiting]  
  
It's true.  
  

Varda: [ice]  
    
So you, too, number yourself among those who are wiser than she, and how her life should be ordered for her, will she, nil she.  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren: [still stubborn, but quieter]  
    
It would have been better if things hadn't happened the way they did. --Unless you think it's a good thing she's dead.  
  

Varda:  
    
Many things would be better, if matters had fallen out other than they did.  
  

Manwe: [earnest]  
    
Have you thought at all what other deeds done in the world might have changed things? Or do you believe that your hands alone shape the fate of Arda?  
  

Beren:  
    
Hand. You're behind on things.  
  
[aside, dismayed]  
  
\--I don't believe I'm doing this. I'm mouthing off to the High King and Queen of all the earth, like a bratty eight-year-old, and I can't help it, and any Man or Elf would have slammed me one by now or stopped talking to me, and gods forbid Ma would've heard me talking to anyone like this -- only they're not\--  
  
[shrugging]  
  
It's not just me. About me. Or us. It's everybody. Whatever happens, in war or not, people suffer and die. Even here. Because the world is all just wrong.  
  
[the Powers look at each other for a silent moment before turning their shimmering gaze back on the mortal spirit]  
  

Manwe: [quietly]  
    
How, then, would you have ordained the world?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [short]  
    
I'm serious.  
  

Varda:  
    
As are we.  
  
[he looks at them, exasperated, but they're a lot more patient than he is]  
  

Beren: [sarcastic, playing along, but getting caught up in it]  
    
Oh sure, you want me to solve all the problems in the universe. How to end suffering and warfare. Hm.  
  
[thinking out loud]  
  
Well, let's see…for starters, no Morgoth.  
  

Varda: [earnest]  
    
He cannot be destroyed. Even were we to battle him again -- which itself would ruin as much or more as he has done, and serve his purposes even as we attempted to counter them -- we cannot end him. His spirit is as eternal as ours, and may only be restrained by our strength, but never slain, though his shape may be harmed according to the laws of earth and flesh.  
  

Beren:  
    
I mean just -- never make him, so he can't think of things to do to the world. That would eliminate them before they ever happened, right?  
  

Varda:  
    
Melkor did not compel any of those who followed him to do so. Lied to them, yes; suggested potentialities to them that otherwise had never crossed their minds; intimidated those who wished to resist him. But if he could have forced any to join him regardless of will, would he not have done so to me, first of all?  
  

Beren: [frowning]  
    
You? Why you?  
  
[the High King of Arda covers his face with his hands, while his Queen tilts her head and Looks at the mortal with as much amusement as a body shaped of starlight and midnight can convey]  
  

Varda:   
    
Why Luthien the Nightingale? --Why Arien of the Burning Heart? And many, many more, most never given names in your speech.  
  
[as it starts to add up, Beren looks from her to her consort in growing surprise, then at the floor with an expression of chagrin.]  
  
\--Because there are those who cannot bear the thought that beauty should be free, that joy should take cause from any source but themselves, that another will should be strong and use that strength for any other purpose but at their pleasure.  
  
[with a touch of sharpness creeping in]  
  
I am not a collectible either. Nor will I ever be a slave -- still less, then, a tool for another's ambitions.  
  

Manwe:  
    
If my elder had not chosen to subject all voices to his own, and silence all who would not sing his tune -- still would those who gladly made themselves his captains and spies been free to choose to do the same, though weaker their voices and smaller the discords than he causes.  
  

Varda:  
    
Even we. Even in us the lure of domination might rise, did we not take our first and greatest joy in being, not in having.  
  
[louder]  
  
\--Even I might have refused  
to allow any other light save my Work to shine upon the world, commanded that no rival stars be made from earth by cunning hands, or when the Darkness came, declared that so 'twas meant to be, and never should any other brightness defile the sky to hide my art, forbidden my fellow Voices to call forth the Two whose light obscures them, and fought them if they refused to obey me -- and given my love the choice between my will, and my love. Even I might fall, did I not ever strive against jealousy and falsehood in my heart. --Even I.  
  
[softer]  
  
Banishing a Voice unheard cannot prevent discord from rising in another's Song.  
  

Beren: [pleading]  
    
But can't you make them be good? Without Morgoth you're the most powerful, right? So why can't you just change it?  
  

Manwe:  
    
How?  
  

Beren: [frustrated]  
    
I don't know, I'm not a god. --Just stop them from being able to do anything harmful.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Have you the power to do harm?  
  

Beren: [snorting]  
    
I'm dead now.  
  

Manwe:  
    
We are aware of that. Can one not choose to work to good or to ill even in fetters, when no bodily power save the mind's ability to affirm, or deny, to forgive, speak love or hate, defy -- is all that remains?  
  
[pause]  
  
Have you not yet such power within your mastery?  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Some.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Housed or not, whence comes that power?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [reluctant]  
    
From me. Deciding what to say or do.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Shall we take it from you? Leave but an image of yourself, that cannot speak any thought that does not first come from mine, or work any wish that does not come from hers? What is left of Beren, when we have done so? Of any person, mortal, deathless, or divine?  
  
[silence]  
  

Beren: [grim]  
    
Is -- is that what you're gonna do to me?  
  
[the Powers shake their heads]  
  
Why not? I've caused you enough trouble, I bet.  
  

Varda:  
    
No one has that right. --None.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [smiling sardonically]  
    
Not even me. I get it.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Nor even, entirely, the power. To destroy is not to govern; to slay, not to rule. Do not the Enemy's own servants even rebel so far as they are able?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Okay, then…let's tackle this a different way. Defensive, not offensive.  
  
[frowning]  
  
How's this? I wouldn't have anything that could be hurt or destroyed. And nothing that could do harm or be used to destroy things. Nothing caused by Morgoth, or tainted by him.  
  
[looking up at them with his head on one side, cockily]  
  
I think that should do it.  
  

Manwe:  
    
Truly?  
  
[Beren nods]  
  

Varda:  
    
Nothing?  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  

Varda:  
Manwe: [unison, sadly]  
    
Behold the world of your Song--  
  
[in the windows the village disappears from the valley and the castle from the mountainside. Followed, in turn, by the soaring birds and deer, and then the vegetation, leaving only bare earth, rock, and water under an empty sky]  
  

Beren: [angry]  
    
No. That isn't what I said.  
  

Varda:  
    
Nothing mortal is left -- nor Eldarin, for to live and to know is to be able to suffer.  
  

Manwe:  
    
But even now, there are still those things which may be harmed, and those which were caused by my elder.  
  
[the stream vanishes, and the mountains sink down into the earth, leaving an empty plain under the sun, which fades slowly, not setting, right from the middle of the sky. As the horizon reddens and darkens:]  
  
Nor will the moon rise to take her place, for neither Anor nor Isil would have come to be, were it not for the deaths of the Two. Is this lightless world, too dead for Death to work any further harm upon, better than the other?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [stubbornly]  
    
The Stars weren't made by the Enemy. They can't destroy anything.  
  
[in the deepening gloom, points of light reappear, gradually returning almost to their real splendour]  
  

Varda:  
    
But they were made for our fellow Children, and to warn Melkor against doing harm to the world. So they, too, were partly caused by him.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Still -- not made by him, and -- they can't be hurt. They're just lights.  
  

Varda: [calm]  
    
But even my works will not last forever, and in time they too will reach the end of their lifespan, and the Heavens will fail, and then there will be nothing left but the changeless Dark.  
  
[in the windows the Stars slowly go out, leaving only blackness -- the only lights now are from the three spirits conversing there]  
  
And we, too, are banished from your Song -- for we have been harmed with Ea, and we must suffer in this All-that-is of ours.  
  
[he does not answer]  
  
Two times already you have denied the Void. Will you now, at the last, reject the World?  
  
[pause -- Beren looks silently at the wall of unending Night, and then at the Starmaker, for an equally long moment, and then slowly bows his head]  
  

Beren: [almost whispering]  
  
    
No.  
  

Varda: [with a shading of approval in her remote voice]  
    
We hoped you would not.  
  

Manwe: [equal approbation]  
    
Well-chosen, friend.  
  
[the star-dome returns as it was, blue-white, blue-black, silver-iridescent, shimering over them.]  
  

Beren: [bitter smile]  
    
Huh.  
  
[he looks at them again, at last; softly:]  
  
What should I do?  
  
[simultaneously]  
  

Manwe:  
Varda:  
    
We do not know.  
  
[he bows his head again, shaking it]  
  

Beren:  
    
Right.  
  
[he turns as if in a daze, or concussed, and begins walking wearily towards the Stair.]  
  

Varda:  
    
What will you do?  
  

Beren: [brokenly]  
    
I don't know.  
  
[at the door he looks back, speaking over his shoulder:]  
  
The Stars -- they were very beautiful…Thank you for making them. --And for the Eagles.  
  
[He turns again and steps through the Door, and vanishes. The King and Queen look at each other sadly and clasp hands between their thrones.]


	57. Scene V.v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.v**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Luthien is looking a bit hectic and brittle as she talks, just short of ranting, with the illusion of more control than actually is present. It is a very awkward situation for her audience, who cannot actually do anything to help the distress to which they are witness, and haven't anywhere else to go -- though Luthien is fairly unaware of their presence at the moment now that Finrod has gotten her started talking, and would probably not notice if they left or not.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
And everyone kept trying to make me feel that it was my fault for being miserable, as if I were just -- choosing to be unhappy, out of spite, to punish them. Not that if I'd known what they were going to do after I wouldn't have wanted to -- but I'm not Gifted that way. Not like Mom.  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
It's so strange, looking back on that time, and knowing now what I didn't know then, not just about what was happening to Beren and you, but about everything. How things would happen. What people would do. That they would make those decisions, and what I would do, and now it's like watching other people playing chess, and seeing the strategies they're using, and knowing how the game is going to go, and not being able to do anything about it, because they won't listen to advice. Only it's not really like that, because it's all in the past. --But would we have listened, if we had actually known what was going to happen, or would we not?   
  

Angrod: [quietly]  
    
We didn't.  
  
[Finarfin tries to catch his gaze, but he won't look up]  
  

Luthien:  
    
The worst thing was how they all expected that it would pass, if I weren't being so perversely-stubborn. "I can't just get over him," I kept telling everybody--  
  
[with a narrow Look at the Ambassador]  
  
\--"and I'm not singing because I don't feel like singing, not because I'm trying to make you feel guilty, and I'm staying out in the woods all the day round because I can't stand to be around here, and at least there I can remember him even if it hurts -- not because there's still a spell on me."  
  
[angry sigh]  
  
And Dad would say things like "He's not coming back, he's certainly not crying his eyes out over you, and he isn't worth your notice, let alone getting despondent over," and Mom would say, "You don't understand," and when I'd say -- "What? So tell me--" she'd just shake her head and sigh and give me this pitying smile, until I'd start saying it was the same as them, and then she'd get upset.  
  
[icy emphasis]  
  
And everyone wanted me to just be happy. --Or to stop being unhappy so that they wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable around me, at least. That was the worst -- when I realized that it wasn't -- at least not entirely -- concern for me that made them want me to be normal and back to my old self.  
  

Amarie: [aside]  
    
Aye, that's a tune its burden I ken well.  
  
[her lips tighten in angry recollection]  
  

Luthien: [getting more and more precise]  
    
I felt so -- so drained and horrible at first, after the numbness wore off, that I thought I was fading -- and I told people that, and they laughed. "Don't be silly." --Don't be silly\--! That was what they told me. Because you can't really be in love with a human, so you can't be fading, even if he was dead. --Only Daeron didn't laugh. He knew it was real. He always knew.  
  
[she wipes her eyes furiously while Finrod looks up over her head to meet Aegnor's burning Look]  
  

Finrod: [quietly]  
    
I never said that. --You said something very close to that, when you came to ask me for help. --I didn't laugh, either.  
  

Luthien: [oblivious to their interaction]  
    
And I thought he was sorry because he understood now, because he believed me, that it was an accident in a way, an honest mistake of him fearing for me -- not that he was jealous and didn't care that we were truly in love. He was so understanding and sympathetic, listening to me for hours, and it never occurred to me to think that he was doing it for an ulterior motive.  
  
[the tears start winning over her self-control again]  
  

Elenwe: [shaking her head]  
    
'Tis a strange and wondrous thing, such avarice for love, that sorroweth at others' joy, nay, had liefer suffer in solitary darkness than take delight in the shining world else, and seemeth much akin to that which denieth joy to others, when to share delight should cost one naught of loss, nay, moreover but little distance, to that Darkest joy that feedeth but on sorrow.  
  

Ambassador: [hackles raised]  
    
My lady, we of the Twilight are not of the Dark, and little would you presume to think it, did you know our Lord and Lady in their gracious selves.  
  

Finarfin: [not angry, but stern]  
    
Sir, we do not for ever here compare our very selves unto our sundered Kin, but most of all do speak and think of that which hath our present and former experience encompass't. --Such, I do believe, is most commonly the way of it, among any folk of any race, else place, else Age. My kinswoman did set in balance the deeds of this thy Daeron against them of Feanor my brother, and deem both at some near remove from th'envious soul of him our common foe, the Lord of Fetters -- no more.  
  
[pause]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
I do beg your pardon, gentles. The dissensions that your rebel element's return have made within this Age throughout our lands have caused us to be somewhat over-ready in taking insult; but I should have considered first that those most near to Felagund would scarcely speak with the same arrogance as others.  
  
[Elenwe is as indifferent to the apology as to the reason for it, but Finarfin exchanges a wry glance with his brother's shade -- the "relative of Finrod" status is a sensation which takes some getting used to]  
  

Luthien: [unable to stop crying, embarrassed]  
    
I'm sorry, this is so stupid--  
  
[Eol chuckles -- Finrod turns to give him a lethal glare while Fingolfin turns away from the sight of his son-in-law's ghost, clenching his fists]  
  

Finrod: [to Eol]  
    
Say anything, kinsman, and I will both personally and vicariously beat you into the floor. Repeatedly, until you learn better manners or the Powers ask me to stop, whichever comes first. Understood?  
  
[Eol doesn't deign to respond, but doesn't say anything to or about Luthien. Aredhel smirks, just a little]  
  

Captain: [grim approval]  
    
No shortage of volunteers, for that.  
  
[the Noldor princess leans towards him, in a familiar aside]  
  

Aredhel: [offhand]  
    
You know, it's a shame your sister isn't here.  
  
[the Captain starts, and then stares fixedly ahead at her words, with the expression of someone who does not dare to say anything just yet, or else is choking on too many things to be said all at once. Finrod's cousin goes on:]  
  
She's so much fun \-- I'd enjoy having her about, and then there'd be someone on my side finally.  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien: [sobbing]  
    
"I can't just cheer up," I said, "and I'm not even going to try -- are you crazy?" And then -- people started pretending -- pretending -- that I wasn't there\--  
  
[overlapping]  
  

    
Would that I might have had such inattention 'gainst myself!  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Only one person ever did feign I was not present.  
  
[their respective partners react with obvious tenseness and chagrin. The Captain looks at Aredhel at last:]  
  

Captain: [absolutely neutral and pleasant]  
    
It's funny you should say that, your Highness, because my lord's sister and I were discussing the same thing on the Ice once, and what the Lady Galadriel said to me was, "Good thing Suli's smarter than either of us -- I'd hate to have drawn her into this," and I agreed absolutely with every point of it, in every possible way.  
  
[longer pause]  
  

Luthien: [sarcastic]  
    
"Just forget about him" -- as if!  
  

Finrod: [rueful]  
    
At least you didn't have siblings telling you that you ought to find someone else.  
  
[Amarie gives him a sudden diamond-flash Look, but his attention is on comforting Luthien. Angrod and Aegnor share involuntary, guilt-filled glances. Aredhel narrows her eyes at the Captain]  
  

Aredhel: [coldly]  
    
My cousin indulges your impertinence shamefully.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, as a matter of fact, the word you want is "abets," my lady. I manage things that it would be inappropriate for him to take official notice of. --Unless you're referring to that one time when I broke your nose by accident. --Which I wouldn't have done if you'd clobbered me from in front rather than behind. Did you want me to apologize for that again, your Highness?  
  

Aredhel:  
    
No.  
  

Captain: [meaningfully]  
    
Just a little friendly advice -- I really don't think you should express your indignation on behalf of your friends quite so -- energetically this time, when someone says anything about the sons of Feanor in the near future.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Do not tell me what to do. You're not one of my counselors.  
  
[snorting]  
  
\--I don't consider you a friend, either.  
  

Captain: [easily]  
    
Yes, but I consider the Lord of Dogs and Beren and Princess Luthien mine, in their own ways. They don't need more trouble, even if you aren't worried.  
  
[with a sidelong Look]  
  
Besides, Highness, what do you care what anyone says to you? You never let it affect you one way or the other.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Shut up.  
  
[Luthien pounds her clenched hand on her knee, until Huan lifts up his head with a whine and rests it on her lap]  
  

Luthien: [raising her voice]  
    
"He's not a tame deer," I said, "I didn't lose a pet \-- and I didn't lose a game either, it isn't just that I was humiliated in front of everybody -- I can't just brush it off and move on to the busy fun-filled rest of my life, and you trying to 'help' me by making me participate in silliness and make-work are just making it worse by making the contrast between your lives and what's been done to us all the stronger!"  
  
[she shakes her head, stroking Huan's muzzle absently as she goes on, getting hiccoughy again]  
  
And they said -- you're being -- heartless. --And irrational.  
  
[her voice gives out and she lets Finrod pull her against his shoulder so she can just cry.]  
  

Fingolfin: [sad]  
    
Those twin goads of loneliness and anger do serve as spurs to action at the need, but in the quiet hours and between-whiles how such terrible weights drag upon the heart and mind and even flesh and bone, so that only action cure them, for a little while…  
  
[his living relatives look at him with both sympathy and a little surprise at this display of reflection on the part of one so formerly brash, but his daughter shakes her head scornfully]  
  

Aredhel: [impatient]  
    
Oh, Father, when are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's embarrassing to be around you any more.  
  
[Nienna's Apprentice has a sudden coughing fit -- he waves his hand in dismissal as people turn and stare at him]  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Sorry. Something stuck in my throat.  
  
[aside]  
  
\--Words.   
  
[very quietly and looking (for him) quite uncertain and awkward, the Lord Warden of Aglon comes in, scanning the chamber and not seeming to find whomever he is looking for. As he stands there by the doorway, the Lord of Dogs lifts his head and bares teeth in his direction, snarling softly, and both the Steward and his ex tense up -- Finrod sets one hand on his counselor's shoulder and takes hold of Huan's collar with the other, addressing all of his following in an undertone:]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Disregard him unless and until he makes a scene.  
  
[after hesitating there the Lord Warden begins a very circuitous journey towards the side of the dais where the Apprentice is sitting, very obviously avoiding everyone else as well as avoiding looking at them, his carriage very stiff and haughty.]  
  

Eol: [spitting the words]  
    
I'll not share the same floor with one of them\--  
  
[he starts to rise]  
  

Aredhel: [brightly]  
    
Farewell!  
  
[at that he glares and sits back down, caught between two horns of the dilemma of controlling pride]  
  

Soldier: [quietly]  
    
Mithrim again.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Aye.  
  

Elenwe: [curious]  
    
What signifieth yon word?  
  

Finrod: [grimacing]  
    
Long story. It's the lake where we first set up a permanent camp, you see…  
  
[as he gives a quick rundown for the cousin who never set foot there, the partisan of Feanor comes to stand next to Nienna's Apprentice, wearing a bleak and very uncomfortable expression]  
  

Aglon: [abrupt]  
    
Where's your Master?  
  
[the Apprentice shrugs]  
  
I need to talk to her.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Join the crowd.  
  

Aglon: [ice]  
    
I am in no mood for your humour now.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Wasn't joking. I don't know where she is, and I badly want to ask her advice, so that makes two of us at least here. --Join the crowd.  
  
[shrugs again]  
  
Or don't, as you please.  
  
[the Warden of Aglon glares at him for a brief moment, looks around at the others uncertainly and realizes that he is not the center of all attention, that nobody is giving him more than passing notice, and slowly makes his way a little distance off, sits down -- but not so far that he is completely out of the conversation.]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Little other than Tirion in the time of unrest it seemeth -- to journey so far afield, and yet make all as 'twas homewards!  
  
[she shakes her head in mild amazement at their folly]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes, but there it was different because we knew they'd killed, instead of just having it be this mysterious and unspoken possibility as it was in the Day of innocence. So it was pretty unpleasant for us, as you might imagine.  
  
[the newcomer gives him a hostile Look, but does nothing. To Luthien, who has cried herself out again:]  
  
Would you like more water?  
  

Luthien:  
    
No, thank you, I'm fine, I -- I'll be all right.  
  
[she wipes her eyes again and goes on in a thin forced tone of normality]  
  
Would you believe, my parents actually were put out with me because -- they said \-- it was my fault they couldn't take their summer holiday that year!?  
  
[with a grim smile of beyond-outrage exasperation]  
  
And I said, "My heart is broken, and you're complaining because you don't feel you can go on vacation." And Dad said, "You'll get over it."  
  
[wry]  
  
\--I didn't.  


  



	58. Scene V.vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.vi

  
    
[Elsewhere: the shadowy Stair]  
  
[Beren goes blindly down the steps, bent and defeated, his unsteadiness increasing with each pace, until he stumbles, falling to his knees as though drunk -- or wounded -- and lies sprawled on the descending staircase, his eyes closed and his face set in an expression of grim misery. For one instant he tries to push himself up, but his hand slips, his balance is gone, and he slams down hard against the stone again, and lets his head rest with a sigh. As the camera draws out from his face we see that the dark stairway has changed, into a slope of cindery grains, beyond which are yet more dark hills and dunes interrupted by the occasional sharp and broken-edged rock. There is a cold light over all, as if from a full moon that cannot yet be seen beyond the horizon, but no stars, and nothing living to be seen anywhere…]  


  


* * *

_to be continued…_


	59. Scene V.vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.vii**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Nearly everyone is paying close attention to Luthien's account of the abrupt shattering of Doriath's serenity, although Aredhel is boredly flipping a dagger into the air and catching it in various creative ways, and as a result the Teler Maid is watching her with the disconcerting fascinated focus of a cat. Whatever temptations are simmering in her mind however apparently requiring some level of cooperation, any nefarious plans are presently held in check -- every time she looks pleadingly at one or another of the Ten, the Captain shakes his head definitely against it; for the present the White Lady is safe from juvenile mayhem.]  
  

Luthien: [earnestly to Finrod]  
    
I'm so sorry, you must be so bored listening to me complain about my family by now.  
  
[she is in much better control of herself right now, but clearly still fragile. Her cousin shakes his head]  
  

Finrod:  
    
No. I'm -- rather upset by the fact that part of me was still convinced that some of it had to be -- not exaggerated, perhaps, but at least somewhat magnified and distorted by report, and -- that I was wrong. I -- did expect much better of Elu and your mother than that.  
  
[he looks very downcast and rather agitated]  
  
This is the first time in the past twelve years that I've regretted 'Tari going out East. If she'd been there, I'm certain things wouldn't have come apart this way.  
  
[his father's attention sharpens, but the (living)  
King of the Noldor does not interrupt]  
  

Luthien: [sighing]  
    
Me too. From the very start.  
  
[with a slight smile]  
  
She hates being called that, you know. It annoys her worse than when you roll the "d" in her name.  
  

Finrod: [shrugging]  
    
Of course. That's why I do it. Someone's got to make her laugh when she starts getting all, "Harken, fools!" over trivial things. Going on a picnic in May is not organizing a rope-bridge traverse over a crevasse and sometimes she forgets that.  
  

Steward: [observing quietly, apparently to Huan]  
    
You know it's gotten out of control when I start wondering if it's really necessary to redistribute the weight in the saddlebags just one more time and if it will make any difference if we've four dozen different choices of menu or only thirty-six.  
  
[the Doriathrin lord smiles faintly but quickly restrains his humour at the recollection; Finarfin's expression is a study in melancholy longing]  
  

Luthien: [wryly]  
    
And we still forgot, what was it, the walnut-butter? No, apple jelly.  
  
[frowning at Finrod]  
  
Only that was because you nicked it to tease her, and then you forgot you'd put it in your wallet until we'd gotten home.  
  
[pause]  
  
You're cheering me up again.  
  

Finrod: [rueful smile]  
    
Sorry. I'll try not to do it again.  
  
[she gives him a light swat with her fingers on his elbow]  
  

Luthien: [serious again, but in a sort of whimsical-remote tone]  
    
No, but really, it was as if I was the only adult left in Doriath, and everyone else was acting like -- like -- I don't know, like spooked animals in a thunderstorm or something. There's Mom -- "Let's just pretend nothing's happening," -- right after she's just told me that oh, yes, Beren's being tortured in a dungeon and the only brightness in his life is remembering us \-- but don't go ask your father for an army, and don't even think about trying to rescue him yourself, because you'll just be miserable afterwards anyway. There's Daeron -- "I won't help you for his sake, because I'm upset with him for making you so unhappy, even if it's not reasonable -- but I'll do it for yours."   
  
[tossing her head scornfully]   
  
Huh --with this friends like this, enemies have to wait their turn. And then there's Dad, alternating between shouting at me, shouting at Beren even though he's not there, and pleading with me in tears to just stop it all and promise that I wouldn't try to follow him.  
  
[she laughs shortly]  
  
\--And then there's me, feeling like -- feeling like maybe this was what it felt like here, when the Darkness came and everybody went half-crazy like we heard--  
  
[with a raised-eyebrow Look at Angrod]  
  
\--in bits and pieces, to be sure.  
  
[transferring the Look to the Ambassador]  
  
And then there's everybody else, making perfectly-reasonable suggestions about what should be done the madwoman, like keeping me locked in my rooms for a hundred years, except no, that wouldn't work, because I'd get sick and pine not being able to see starlight and trees, unless what if we put her to sleep for all that time instead, except that wouldn't work because nobody's powerful enough except maybe Mom and she wouldn't get involved, so then somebody comes up with the brilliant suggestion of sticking me up in the top of Hirilorn, which was just fiendishly brilliant, and who was it who came up with it any way, you or cousin Galadhon-- or I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it…  
  

Eol: [confused and disgusted]  
    
Why wouldn't it?  
  
[Luthien stares at him in equal confusion]  
  
The wrong does not cease to have been done you, because you are dead and there's no way now for you to revenge yourself against the perpetrator.  
  
[Elenwe turns and slowly looks at him as though he were some repellent but fascinating beast]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
'Twas yon will to vengeance that did animate thy foes, was't not? And burning vengeance that drove my lord his uncle across the Sea.  
  
[earnest]  
  
It must come, an end to vengeance -- else ne'er end shall come in Arda, nor only Arda its ending.  
  

Eol: [controlled, mocking irony]  
    
Spare me your pious mysticism, Light-elf.  
  

Elenwe: [mild]  
    
Aye -- yet shall any spare thee from thyself, kinsman?  
  
[the Warden of Aglon gives her a strange, troubled Look and then turns away, staring out into the shadows with an expression of longing]  
  

Luthien: [ignoring Eol and continuing to Finrod]  
  
    
You know, I finally felt sorry for Galadriel after it came out about the Kinslaying. It's funny -- I felt sorry for you all, getting shouted at by Dad, but I was too upset with her to pity her at all, back when it happened. I mean, I forgave her, and it was all right between us, like with her and Mom, but when it first was all still going on, after you left, and my parents made her sit down and fill in all the gaps and verify Mom's guesses--  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
I just felt betrayed. Because I felt like she was a little sister, or even better, because she was so different from everyone else I knew in Doriath and I knew her so much better than you, because she lived with us. I'd never had a friend like her before, and she was so clever and exciting and had so many stories to tell…and then I realized how much she'd been leaving out, and why, and it just made me sick.  
  
[in the background, the palantir is glowing softly, but no one is paying attention, and no one notices, not even Nienna's Apprentice. Eventually it goes dark again.]  
  
I wouldn't talk to her for I don't know how long. I stayed up in the trees because I didn't even want to look at her, or hear her try to apologize to me. When Mom and Dad were raking her over the coals and Celeborn took off to stand guard with the Rangers for a while and said he didn't know if he was going to come back, what was the point of setting up a communications service if the people it was meant to reach weren't going to talk to us -- I just felt it was justice.  
  
[Huan starts making increasingly-loud Please-Don't-Be-Unhappy! whines and she reaches down to shush him. With a profound sigh:]  
  
I still do. I don't think there's any comparison between concealing the story of the Darkening and all but lying to Mom while she was taking everything Mom would teach her, and not even telling Dad his best friend had been murdered until she had to, let alone the rest of it -- and my keeping Beren's presence for myself. I knew he wasn't a threat to us, -- and he wouldn't have been, if they hadn't made him into one. But when it was my turn to be questioned and reprimanded and cross-questioned and scolded again and again, I understood why she would have tried to put it off forever, pretend that everything was all right and deny it when it wasn't, for as long as possible -- because there's nothing more horrible than having the people you love look at you as if you've changed into something awful, or been changed--  
  
[seriously]  
I'd forgiven her, but I hadn't ever pitied her before. But I finally knew what she must have been feeling, and how much it must have hurt inside, and I finally thought, "Poor Galadriel."  
  
[with an uneven smile]  
  
I only then realized how much it must have hurt for us to call her that -- Galadriel, I mean, not "poor" -- because of it being the name Celeborn gave her, until they got back together again after all that. What else were we going to call her? I don't think it even occurred to us to use her other ones. But she never gave any sign of what it must have felt like. I wasn't that brave -- though it was the other way around, I wanted them to use the name he'd given me -- but…  
  

Finrod: [gently]  
    
There was at least as much pride involved as unwillingness to embarrass you. --I know what we're like. She wouldn't have admitted that it made her unhappy any more than I ever let on that being teased by my relatives for having a Dwarven aftername once bothered me.  
  
[his uncle looks penitent, while his living relatives look interested]  
  

Luthien: [frowning]  
  
    
It did?  
  

Finrod: [correcting]  
    
The jesting -- that got old quickly. It stopped mattering when I asked myself why it did, being a true name, and given that I held the wisdom of the one who had occasioned it in far higher esteem than those kinsmen who laughed at the thought of Elves living in burrows underground.  
  
[Luthien gives the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand a hard Look -- then on a sudden inspiration turns and catches the two Princes also looking rather embarrassed]  
  

Luthien: [dry]  
    
No, well, you wouldn't have heard any teasing like that around our House, obviously.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Why do you think I used to invite myself over for long visits? It wasn't only for the free music.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I thought it was to argue over the nature of Time with Dad. That's what it seemed like.  
  
[with a small reminiscent smile]  
  
Galadriel and I used to have bets on how long it would take for you to start arguing about whether Time was a constant or not and who would be the first one to say the words "axle of the heavens."  
  

Finrod: [loftily]  
    
We -- discussed other things, too. On several occasions.  
  
[checks]  
  
Sorry -- I'm cheering you up again.  
  

Luthien: [with a nostalgic smile]  
    
It's all right.  
  
[dreamily]  
  
It's kind of nice…to remember being happy and safe and not worried or angry. It wasn't, when I was alive -- it just made things so much worse.  
  
[checking]  
  
Is that -- another reason -- why you all never wanted to talk about Aman the way Mom did?  
  
[Finrod nods sadly]  
  

Nerdanel: [shaking her head, bemused]  
    
I confess, I do find it a great wonder and a difficulty, to conceive of young Artanis wed.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
It's even funnier thinking of her living the primitive rustic life out in the woods all the time, not just going out on hunting trips but staying in a cave with no conveniences and no technology surrounded by illiterates.  
  
[Eol snarls at this; Luthien gives the Noldor Princess a cool, thoughtful look as the latter says leadingly]  
  
Though someone as dull and dutiful as he sounds might be pleasant . . .  
  
[she smiles at her husband's expression; for the first time she seems to properly notice her aunt's existence.]  
  
\--What are you doing here anyway, 'Danel? You're not dead.  
  

Nerdanel: [brusque]  
    
I do recollect me that once thou hadst better manners, when thou didst guest within my House -- else better mastery of thy inconsideration.  
  
[she gives Fingolfin a Look that says volumes (or centuries, rather) about past familial interaction]  
  

Finrod:  
    
'Feiniel, you know we've told you what the Thousand Caves were like, not quite a thousand times, but often enough.  
  
[Aredhel tosses her head as she catches her dagger by the point and spins it about her fingers]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Yes, but it's amusing to watch my consort strangle over wanting to contradict me but not wanting to say anything nice about his royal cousins whatsoever.  
  
[this doesn't impress any of her relatives -- favorably, but it does inspire the Elf from Alqualonde to beg for her friends' assistance again]  
  

Teler Maid: [urgent whisper]  
    
Please! Oh please, just but once!  
  
[she clasps her hands and makes puppy-eyes at the Captain, but he shakes his head]  
  

Captain:  
    
Be patient, Ternlet.  
  
[she sulks a bit, and starts eyeing the Apprentice speculatively as her next target in would-be conspiracy]  
  

Finarfin: [hesitantly to Luthien]  
    
Gentle kinswoman, I had not willingly to interrupt thy discourse further -- yet must I perforce wish to, would I or no; and thus I'll entreat thy gracious indult, that thou might say, and thou wouldst in mercy, of what temper and measure and spirit be this thy kinsman, that hast been named in hearing as one Celeborn -- and eke my son as yet unknown to me, by bond of love.  
  
[Luthien blinks for a moment]  
  

Luthien:  
    
What's he like\--? Well, um…he's my cousin…he likes messing around with boats, he's got a good way with trees -- he can be pretty stubborn, sometimes -- of course, that's all of us--  
  

Finrod: [cutting in]  
    
He's pretty reasonable most of the time, I always thought.  
  

Aegnor: [muttering]  
    
Yes, but you only say that because he usually agrees with you.  
  

Finrod:  
    
And your point is--?  
  
[his living relatives are not sure how to take this]  
  

Angrod:  
    
You two argued for almost a month over the special boat service you wanted Menegroth to implement as part of your communications network.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes, but he came round to my way of seeing things in the end, so that was all right.  
  

Nerdanel: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
And thou dost rebuke others for fault of arrogance?  
  

Finrod: [snorting]  
    
You think I believe only agreement is a sign of rationality? Not at all -- his objections were mostly well-founded, and indicated things which needed to be worked through in more detail, if they hadn't been quite overlooked. I was referring to him losing his temper and saying things he has to apologize for afterwards, or running off to the Marches instead of . . .  
  
[he stops talking and looks quickly at and away from Amarie. Pause. Stiffly:]  
  
Never mind about that. --He isn't unreasonable beyond reason -- most of the time he is quite rational and objective.  
  

Finarfin: [still concerned]  
    
Thou art assuréd of his goodness, his wisdom, moreover that his strength sufficeth for that thy sister might not overawe his better sense, as hath betimes been known of our House in bygone Day?  
  

Finrod: [slightly mocking tone]  
    
Father, are you asking me for my judgment on matters of virtue and prudence?  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Yes. He loves her enough to contradict her when he must. There aren't that many of any of our Kindreds brave enough to do that. And she loves him enough to listen when he does. She knows that she can trust Celeborn to stand firm upon matters of principle, even if he'd rather give in to her for the sake of peace -- but that in matters of personal pride and no more, he's strong enough to bend, and to apologize, and to change his mind when he sees himself in the wrong.  
  

Finarfin: [with the slightly-edged tone his son used a moment ago]  
    
And thou dost not deem him weak, else irresolute, for all of that?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [taut]  
    
No.  



	60. Scene V.viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.viii

  
  
  
       
[Beren is still lying motionless on the burnt hillside, with all as in the previous scene, the only movement or sound being a small whisper of wind over the dunes blowing little drifts of ash about. A tall figure approaches across the field, completely robed and muffled in long, flowing draperies that conceal all individuality and prevent any glimpse of features beneath the overshadowing hood. There should be a striking resemblence between Luthien in Act II and She Who Mourns, as she now appears, coming to stand beside him, still veiled.]  
  

Nienna:  
    
For what do you sorrow, Child?  
  
[there is a long pause, before he answers, through clenched teeth, not raising his head nor even opening his eyes:]  
  

Beren:  
    
\--Everything.  
  

Nienna:  
    
\--Then for what do you not weep?  
  

Beren: [bitter]  
    
What difference does it make?  
  

Nienna:  
    
You might be surprised.  
  
[pause]  
What of the griefs that are yours? What of your pains, and the losses of home, of comrade and kin, of joy and hope and song?  
  

Beren:  
    
What are mine, in the balance of Ea?  
  

Nienna:  
    
If you will not grant your own sorrow the right of honour, what of others'--?  
  
[pause]  
  
What then of she who loves you, who has known so many weary days on your behalf, each filled with grief beyond measure, and each heavier than the last? Is her sorrow of no worth, for being the sorrow of one only?  
  
[silence -- but alive with tension]  
  
\--What, too, of the lady of the Northlands, who left behind her heart and her hope, even as she bore away others' in the strength of her staff and her sword, repaying the trust of her people at the cost of heart's breaking?  
  
[the ash blows in a sudden gust like smoke]  
  
What of her lord, who dying hoped, but never knew, that the son of their love yet escaped the Doom that love betrayed had brought him?  
  
[he makes a choked sound, not quite a sob, but does not move]  
  
What of those lovers, rent for no wrongdoing of theirs, but only the misfortune of place, and time, and the Marring? Or what of the lost, with their lord and the land they defended, whose reward for such service was ever-more privation, and not even victory to set in mind as the hope or the fee of it? What of that land, of the wounded earth and the tortured trees, and the anguish of all under the burden of hate?  
  
[Beren gives a convulsive shiver]  
  
What of the people who loved as well and truly as they hated, hiding their young lord and holding his secret in their own despite? Or of those others, not bound by blood, nor fealty, nor any tie save friendship, whose faith held firmer than any wall or weapon ever shall? What of the King who suffered shame upon shame without reproach, and clasped pain still greater most freely in hope of sparing friend the same?  
  
[his hand clenches up the burnt sand where it rests]  
  
What of the faithful Hound, who might not save his master, for all his strength, and all his suffering, even at the cost of his own life -- exchange made but folly, in that Man's dying?  
  
[pause]  
  
Are they not worthy of your tears?  
  
[silence -- he does not answer, but she does not leave, waiting. After long moments Beren draws his arm closer against his face, hiding his expression -- and very quietly begins to cry.]  



	61. Scene V.ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.x**

  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Luthien has recovered some of her usual animation and is telling about her past experiences in a tone made more vigorous by indignation, though there is a very tenuous quality to it, like a gap between clouds on a midsummer day. (Huan has finagled the Steward into allowing him to rest his head on the Elf-lord's lap, and now is lying on the dais like a docile, napping Kodiak bear, enjoying non-stop if absent-minded ear scratching.)]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I was so completely in shock. I didn't honestly know what I was feeling at the moment -- it was as though I were watching myself and wondering what it was this person was going to do now, as if I were hearing a tale about someone that this was all happening to. And convinced that it wasn't actually going to happen -- that I was having a nightmare, just like a mortal, not that it was real, but that somehow I was going to break out of it and find it was only a dream gone bad. Or if it was real, surely it wouldn't really play through to the end of the verse -- that Dad wasn't really serious, that Mom wasn't going to pretend she didn't know what was happening right outside our front door, which was a pretty impressive bit of self-deception given all the work it was to set up rigging and build a full-fledged house, not just a flet, all the way up in Hirilorn.  
  
[looking rather anxiously at Finrod]  
  
Was I wrong? Was I stupid to refuse to give in, and just lie about it, and pretend to agree to give up Beren, and then leave? Instead of telling the truth, that I couldn't make that promise in conscience, or honor it if I gave it?  
  

Finrod: [quiet but earnest]  
    
No. Trying to do evil so that good will come of it is hopeless. It would have made everything worse eventually.  
  
[she frowns with a bitter expression, not at him but abstractedly]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I still don't understand it. --Especially Mom. Even after we came home I couldn't get any straight answers out of her. --Any answers, really. If she knew Beren was there, why didn't she tell Dad right off? If she knew I was seeing him, why did she say nothing to any of us, not even me? I know they fought about her silence after he found out that I'd gone to her for advice and she didn't say anything to him about what I said, but -- and then she didn't stop me, but she didn't help me either, but then she sort of did by not preventing me by interfering. So I just don't get it.  
  

Nerdanel: [mild]  
    
Belike her tenderness towards thee did differ in small wise from thine own most fearful love and striving to hold safe withal thy Beren from his fate?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Yes, but then why did she not not get involved as much as she did get involved?  
  
[silence]  
  

Amarie: [aside]  
    
There's naught of sense in that.  
  

Angrod:  
    
Actually, it isn't really any different from us wondering why the gods back home didn't stop things before they got out of hand.  
  

Aegnor: [undertone]  
    
\--Here. We are home, brother.  
  

Amarie:  
    
Aye, and here's the end forewarnéd of such rebel thinking!  
  
[Finrod looks away in distress; Luthien clasps his hand in sympathy]  
  

Angrod: [pleasantly]  
    
Indeed, here we are -- and do you know, I've heard more harping on that one note in the last hour, than I have in the past ten years since we were killed, from the Powers that rule here?  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
More like twelve -- no, thirteen, by now.  
  
[Amarie's expression is set as stone]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Actually, Nessa was very definite that they don't and didn't know everything that's going on in the world, only lots of it. I didn't get any sense that she was lying, or even shading the truth, to me.  
  

Nerdanel: [with a touch of trouble-making]  
    
Nay, 'ware thee, cousin, else my niece-by-love be troubled to heart's veriest heart by thy most impertinent impieties.  
  
[the living Vanyar lady reacts with an angry glare]  
  

Angrod: [frowning, with both resentment and confusion in his tone]  
    
Though that still leaves the question of how they managed not to realize what we were up to, right next door to us as it were.  
  

Fingolfin: [tolerant, but sad]  
    
Nay, lad, have you forgotten so swiftly, that we did all in our power to conceal our activities, and dissembled with smiling faces and lying silence, at the first, and then with the guise of our heraldry and devices, making it seem but one more new thing we had devised, no more than letters, or the symbolism of colors and other such languages, hiding our swords' forging beneath this covering most open to the eye, as we covered our resentments beneath words of flattery and studiousness that did but steal all that teaching so freely given -- and why should they mistrust us from the first, that had given us no cause to hate them? If you would be judged fairly, you must be as just in your own turn.  
  
[his nephew bridles a bit at being so rebuked, but nevertheless is thoughtful and silent at his words; his living kin regard him with bemusement, but only his daughter-in-law actually says anything:]  
  

Elenwe: [surprised tone]  
    
Verily, is't thou, Fingolfin?!  
  
[in the awkward interval of Valinorean surprise at the fact that Feanor's eldest brother is talking about prudence and dispassionate perspective]  
  

Apprentice: [aside]  
    
I'd regret the fact that this son of Finwe has learned mercy and wisdom -- even a little -- too late; but I know my Master and her brother would sigh and look at me oddly until I figured out why -- so I suppose I've got to figure it out before I say it to them.  
  
[as the common family chagrin is set aside in a spontaneous return to the subject, simultaneously:]  
  

Finrod:  
    
About Melian -- I've been thinking--  

Finarfin:  
    
Haply else 'twere thy mother's--  
  
[they both stop at once at the realization that the other is also speaking, and look at each other warily, waiting/indicating for the other to go on. Finarfin shakes his head a little, and after a second Finrod continues, a little more self-consciously]  
  

Finrod:  
    
If in fact Beren's Doom was to--  
  
[he is cut off by the Princess of Doriath]  
  

Luthien: [intense exasperation]  
    
\--Did he say that to you, too? Mablung told me that, what his last words were -- but it isn't true, it can't be, and if you think so then--  
  
[Finrod makes hasty shushing gestures and she stops mid-rant with an apologetic Look]  
  

Finrod: [placatingly]  
    
Let's just assume, for the sake of argument, that Beren is right -- at least in part; that he was meant to recover the Light of the Trees from the Lord of Fetters, even if nothing went as it ideally should have. --Please note, cousin, I didn't say, "even if he bungled it." I don't think that any single one of us -- not even Elu Thingol -- is responsible for the scale of this fiasco, any more than any one of us--  
  
[glancing round at his brothers, companions, and uncle]  
  
\--is responsible for the failure of the Leaguer. Considering the level of Power you were up against, it's more than amazing you three succeeded in so far as you did. Beginning from that premise, ask yourself what Melian was supposed to do.  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien:  
    
You mean in a Fate sense of "supposed," not "what was I supposed to do?" the way people usually mean when they say that.  
  
[he nods]  
  
Er…  
  
[she shakes her head impatiently]  
  
Finrod, I'm too tired for guessing games.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well, if you were meant to help him -- because it's not in question that he couldn't have done it alone any more than, as it turned out, I could have -- then it would be Melian's duty as one of the loyal Powers to assist in the project to steal back the Silmarils. Right?  
  

Nerdanel: [passionately, shaking her head]  
    
Yet how should any parent -- any that's deserving of the name -- consent and moreover gladly thereto, that the child most beloved and so long reared and sheltered, now doth go afield and into most grievesome dangers, into fell perils and woes both certain and uncertain, nor ever but restrain as she is able?  
  

Ambassador: [to Luthien]  
    
The lady has put it quaintly, yet as well as any might, my Princess.  
  

Luthien: [to Finrod]  
    
Now I'm going to sound very contrary -- but I'm going to agree. I don't like the thought of Mom having -- an ulterior duty of some sort, beyond to us -- we're her family after all! -- but that\--  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
\--just sounds too -- too creepy. And if it is true--  
  
[breaks off, biting her lip]  
  

Eol: [macabre glee]  
    
\--It's pretty funny, if it is -- great Melian, daunted by nothing in the whole wide World, singlehandedly holding back the power of the Dark Lord, handing out bread and wisdom all these years for the grateful masses and her adoring husband -- and coming quite to pieces because with all her legendary foresight she wasn't prepared for her daughter taking after her -- and up with a travelling stranger. Who'd have thought of it, Fate catching up with the runaway goddess at last, her thinking she'd done her divine duties by looking after the poor benighted savages and it not being what she'd thought at all. It's easy to do what you please, and fancy yourself virtuous, isn't it? Much harder when you have to give up something that really matters -- like your child.  
  
[Aredhel growls at him under her breath, gripping the hilt of her dagger as if about to hurl it at him]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Mom's not like that at all!  
  

Eol: [maddeningly patronizing]  
    
Well, of course you wouldn't see it, young demigoddess.  
  

Teler Maid: [aside, to the Guard nearest her]  
    
Has he truly killed someone once?  
  

Third Guard: [nodding]  
    
At least.  
  
[the Sea-Elf stares at Eol with spooked horror, covertly]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
Lord Eol, you wrong not only our Queen and King, but our entire people with your groundless mockery.  
  

Eol: [offensive]  
    
Yes, well, you always did know what board your bread was on, didn't you?  
  
[the Captain gestures covertly to his team, and four of the Ten get up and surround Thingol's kinsman promptly]  
  

Captain: [to Finrod and Luthien]  
    
How far into the floor did you want him?  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Hah!  
  

Luthien: [dispirited]  
    
Oh, just leave him alone -- his is just a warped version of what I was going to say. And it won't do him any good to beat him up, I'm afraid.  
  
[all of the Noldor shades present look faintly disappointed, as does the Doriathrin Ambassador, though the Teler Maid has only expressed alarm at the prospect, and Elenwe more amused, if slightly disapproving, than anything else]  
  

Soldier: [aside, wistfully]  
    
But he deserves it…  
  

Luthien: [sighing]  
    
Yes, but he doesn't seem to realize that, and I don't think it will help him to, either.  
  
[turning back to Finrod as the disappointed Elf-warriors leave her alienated cousin alone, with visible regret]  
  
Because if that's true -- not only is it creepy and disturbing, but then I'd have to feel sorry for her, too. And I know I said it felt like I was the only grown-up and sane Elf in Menegroth then, but I don't really want it to have been the case -- that I was more mature and responsible than Mom during all of this. Because that's what it would really mean, if it was right and proper for me to pity her for being in over her head and not able to cope.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I didn't say it was going  
to be a cheerful conclusion at all. I'm a little unsettled by the one I  
reached long ago and whose implications I'm still working out, that I was  
supposed to go to Middle-earth.  
  
[looking at his father intensely]  
  
In the Doomed sense of the word.  
  
[there is a moment of uncertain silence from his family; Huan lifts his head and gives Finrod an attentive Look]  
  

Amarie: [sharp]  
    
What, in the Song?  
  
[the Steward winces, and there is a general bracing of selves among Finrod's following as their sovereign gives his consort a long, cool Look in turn, before there is an intervention]  
  

Elenwe: [matter-of-fact]  
    
Most assuredly, such is th'import of thy lord his words.  
  

Amarie: [derisive]  
    
Oh, but there's an easy answer -- return to all reproach, that most pridefully declareth -- 'Twas Foredoomed so, therefore I may bear no guilt in this--!  
  

Aredhel: [piqued aside]  
    
Didn't we hear all this when we left? Do we need more sanctimonious lecturing, really?  
  
[she goes back to knife-juggling with a bored expression, while the Apprentice listens with intent curiosity -- but no surprise or disapproval, apparently unaware that his non-reaction is noted with interest by various of the Ten]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Far from, for still 'tis no answer to that which each must ask unto heart its inmost heart -- did I but follow "ought" unto Doom, else did I but Doom mine own self for aught of pride, else folly? --Still less what purpose should be served, by such a cross-grained mandate, nor whether it be fulfilled by deed, by undoing, else by failure. And there's but the least and eke the simplest portion of't. For if it be so, then must be asked thereafter -- what signifieth this, that the One should ordain such strife amongst his Children, nay, set those who strive to remain in tune at discords, each unto each the other?  
  

Finrod: [surprised]  
    
I didn't realize you'd thought this through as well--  
  

Elenwe: [blandly]  
    
Some do spend these measureless hours in anger, some in despite, some in despair -- some had rather go busily to and fro making many diverse sorts of affairs and contentions, whilst some others rather do occupy the passing Ages in deep seekings after wisdom, the better to comprehend their Doom.  
  

Finrod: [mock affront]  
    
I'll have you know, I don't spend all my time dashing about starting trouble!  
  

Elenwe:  
    
There's a great change, assuredly.  
  
[Amarie breaks impatiently into their affectionate teasing]  
  

Amarie:  
    
Yet thou dost hold it within potentiality, no less, that deeds done against the will of Manwe, nay, in willful disrespect of, as well as all that's done by cause of such thereafter -- might yet be holy, and sanctioned by a higher Power oversetting yet?  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Aye.  
  

Amarie: [furious]  
    
Out on thee, cousin!  
  
[the Vanyar ghost looks up at the vaulted ceiling, her expression ironic]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Not yet, I.  
  
[the living Elf-King leans forward, earnest rather than perturbed by this cosmic speculation]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay, canst make plain unto me, what cause thou holdest warrant for thy certainty, beyond all those with which ye did reproach me heretofore?  
  

Finrod: [meaningful]  
    
If all else had gone the same, except only that I had not gone forward over the Grinding Ice, and all else had fallen out the same but for what had been changed by that--  
  
[checking]  
  
\--which actually would have been fairly significant in the western part of the country, and very uncertain, though I think that whatever the nominal state of things, Galadriel would have ended up running the House overseas, but that isn't what I'm talking about -- in any case--  
  
[back to his serious tone as before distraction]  
  
\-- if I had not been there, who then should have met and dealt with Beor when they came into the eastern territories?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Whom, then, meanst thou?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Feanor's children. If anyone.  
  
[longer, speculative silence]  
  

Angrod: [quiet, but upset]  
    
No. No, and no.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I don't mean that's the only.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
\--But you think it's the most important.  
  
[his eldest brother does not deny it]  
  
Admit it -- you do.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well -- yes.  
  
[their relatives regard this display of cryptic sibling communication with worry and confusion]  
  

Aredhel: [impatient]  
    
What are you three rattling on about there?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I would have phrased it differently, but -- precisely.  
  

Aglon: [startling those who have forgotten he's present]  
    
He means that the most important Deed he accomplished in the course of the Age, was not to do with the War, nor in spreading the glories of our civilization throughout the disordered wilderness we found there, but simply this -- that he should be the one to discover the Followers, and not my lords' brothers.  
  
[fiercely, to Finrod]  
  
\--Is that so?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Essentially, though I'd also phrase it somewhat otherwise.  
  

Aglon: [shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the Elf-King's]  
    
No. I meant -- do you still believe it, now, after -- after what was done to you? --In perfect honesty?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh, yes. More so than ever, that it was my Work to find the Secondborn, and lead them, to the knowledge of the West, at least.  
  
[to his lawful relatives]  
  
Something set me in the Eastern Marches in the proper season, in that year of all years, where I had no reason to be then rather than a year before, or ten years after; something called me to follow the sunlight on the distant mountainsides, to yearn more to see the way the fading day should change the lands before me than for the cheerful company of my own kind -- though it seemed no more than the truth of the old saying, that every bit of countryside should be viewed between the ears of a horse, until I heard the singing. --Everything else which I did, or helped in doing, someone else of us could have done, or did.  
  
[to Luthien, quietly]  
  
Only I failed there, too -- and far worse, having so much more by way of resources at my command, than Beren ever could be considered to have done.  
  
[very deliberately she takes his hands in her own, and one after the other raises them to her lips while he blinks away tears]  
  

Luthien: [sad]  
    
I keep forgetting, that you've lost Men you loved too -- that it isn't just me.  
  
[she turns to look now at Aegnor, who flinches under her gaze]  
  

Aegnor: [involuntary honesty]  
    
Don't -- please, don't \-- I'd rather you hate me than pity me, cousin.  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head]  
    
I'm sorry, I can't help it. Even if I wanted to.  


  



	62. Scene V.x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.x

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Dark Land]  
  
[the mortal shade is in the same pose as before, but still now, and relaxed, not taut with agonized helplessness -- he lies blinking on the sands, utterly exhausted, while She Who Mourns still kneels behind him. Now she lifts him up to a half-sitting position, and holds to his lips a shallow bowl made of a crystal so pure that it, and the water it contains, give a prismatic reflection (sfx) even in this small amount of light, supporting him while he drinks with desperate urgency. At last he raises his head to see his rescuer--]  
  

Beren: [hoarse]  
    
Thank you--  
  
[--but no one is there. As he slowly looks around, still half-dazed, he sees only swirling mists in a gradually-brightening but still very dim light, in which no shapes nor structures can be discerned. The ground is also pale now, the almost-colorless, winter-bleached grass revealed after the snows have gone…]  


  


* * *

  
_to be continued…_   



	63. Scene V.xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xi**

  
  
[the Hall]  
  

Luthien:  
    
It is sort of funny that they did it to keep me safe, when you think about the consequences were. I mean--  
  
[fighting a grim smile]  
  
\--it isn't as if I was particularly safe, walking myself down the trunk, or as if given a choice between sending someone out quite alone and going with at least a company of warriors, you'd think that alone was preferable.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well, I -- don't think they expected you were going to do something like that, really.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Why ever not? I'd been saying I was going to run away and find Beren -- that's why they locked me up, after all, wasn't it? So what would give them the slightest impression that punishing me that way would make me give up?  
  

Finrod: [biting his lip]  
    
I'm pretty sure that Elu didn't think you could, or else he wouldn't have been so careless.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well, it was lucky for me that he underestimated me, but--  
  

Finrod: [quietly]  
    
I'm not defending him--  
  

Luthien: [not stopping]  
    
\--I really don't see why Dad thought I would be more inclined to agree with him if he insulted me--  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Nay, an erring slight be other than insult, verily.  
  

Luthien:  
    
What about calling me insane? And deluded? We consider those insults back home where I come from.  
  

Elenwe: [undaunted by sarcasm]  
    
It hingeth upon purpose and intent alike, th'import of description, so it be merest declaration of percievéd truth, otherwise of scathe.  
  

Luthien:  
    
He called me stupid -- he called me a brainless baby who didn't know what I was talking about, didn't know what lay outside the borders of the country and that wasn't courage, that was just my ignorance talking when I said I was willing to face the Outside -- he said I took for granted everything I'd been given and I was a selfish, vindictive brat who didn't appreciate what they were doing for me -- he said I didn't deserve to be treated like an adult since I wasn't acting like one--  
  
[she stops, too impassioned to go on in an orderly fashion]  
  

Finrod: [raising his eyebrows]  
    
\--As Beren would say, --Hoo boy.  
  
[he shakes his head regretfully]  
  

Elenwe: [nodding]  
    
\--Scathing, aye.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Then there was the bit when I said, "what if you were a prisoner of the Enemy, what if you'd got caught and were strung up on his Gates or in his dungeons, wouldn't you expect Mom would come after you to rescue you then?" and he said, "I'm sure your mother would have the good sense to put her duty to all of you over personal considerations and not risk either herself or the kingdom on a mad and hopeless venture," and I said but Fingon and he raised his voice to me--!  
  
[loud enough to make people jump]  
  
And what's more, we both knew perfectly well it wasn't true!  
  

Ambassador:  
    
L-- Highness, he only wished to protect you, for your own sake--  
  

Luthien: [biting]  
    
Well, he went about it in the worst way possible, didn't he, then?  
  
[her compatriot cannot answer her, but another attempts to]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye. That, in truth, none might e'er deny. --Yet lettest thou nor cease to bear in mind, that elders be but Eldar, e'en as their offspring, and subject no less than more unto equal passions, to the world's storms and the heart's disquiet, and to wrath, and inconstancy, even as to the overmastering pride, that durst not yield concession of any, lest smallest surrender be presage to the all; and willfulness doth ever raise the cry of --Willful! -- as 'twere a mirrored shield to turn back just rebuke.  
  
[with a sweeping gesture, looking at his sons even as he addresses her]  
  
\--For hard indeed, and surpasseth measure, to be held unto reckoning by one subject, for fealty, and if 'tis so, how much more so when him that challengeth is child and student, younger in years, in knowing, and in deed, and holding all those -- or so it seemeth -- but from one's self, as a gem's light inwrought by the artisan; for so easily and swift do we forget, that neither earth, nor holy fire, are of our own sole making, nor aught but gift to us that we might help to shape it, nor for our own solitary pleasure, but that all the world derive the blesséd good of it.  
  
[Luthien looks down, pensive and troubled at his words; but they are taken differently by another]  
  

Finrod: [lightly, in a tone of false patience]  
    
Yes, I'm arrogant, I took the gifts you gave me and squandered them and encouraged my siblings in pernicious rebellion -- and I really didn't need to hear it all over again, Father.  
  
[the living Elf-King does not say anything in his own defense]  
  

Teler Maid: [aside, uncertain]  
    
But that is not at all what he meant . . .   
  

Captain:  
    
Sire -- think about what Lord Finarfin has said.  
  
[Finrod turns and glares at him]  
  
\--Use your head, my lord, not only your heart. As if you were listening to any other speaker, at court or in the realm.  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [his voice shaking slightly]  
    
I can't be dispassionate about it. Not after what he said there -- do you know what he said to me then--  
  

Captain: [apologetic]  
    
\--Well, yes, I was standing about this far away at the time--  
  
[he gestures about a yard and a half apart with his hands; Finrod goes on, talking right over him]  
  

Finrod: [stifled, almost unable to speak as he goes on]  
    
He called me ungrateful. He called me a traitor, and a liar as well. He accused me of making my way to power through the blood of my family. He asked me how long I'd wanted to seize authority from him, while pretending to be on his side in all our House debates--!! He said he hoped I would lose everything the way he'd lost it, the loyalty of our people the way I was taking it from him, have my own flesh and blood turn on me as well, and leave me in the same desolation as I was leaving him, before the Doom of the gods fell on me.  
  
[Finarfin buries his face in his hands, bowing his head as both Amarie and Nerdanel turn, and with the Sea-Mew, stare at him in shock]  
  
\--Well, his wish came true.  
  
[snorting furiously]  
  
He couldn't have cut me worse than if he'd taken your spear and run it through my heart--  
  

Captain: [insistent]  
    
Yes, but he's apologizing\--  
  
[Luthien nods, her expression earnest agreement, but Finrod is too upset to notice]  
  

Finrod: [stiffly]  
    
I didn't hear a "sorry" in there anywhere.  
  

Captain:  
    
My lord -- only consider how long and complicated your own apology to the Powers was, given that there were parts of what you'd done that you didn't regret, nor feel that you ought to regret, either.  
  

Finrod: [very brittle tone]  
    
Even you, now?  
  

Captain: [quietly]  
    
What do you think, Sire?  
  
[long pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Sorry.  
  
[he reaches out his hand to clasp the Captain's]  
  
\--Curse or not, it all served one good purpose, notwithstanding -- to show me which were my true friends.  
  
[simultaneous, amused contempt]  
  

Eol:  
    
\--Milksop.  

Aredhel:  
    
You're such a loser, Ingold.  
  
[Finarfin raises his tear-stained countenance in a stern glare at his niece, while his brother steels himself to rebuke his daughter and the Warden of Aglon looks at the couple with a conflicted dismay]  
  

Aglon: [aside]  
    
\--Is that how I appear?  
  

Angrod:  
    
Aredhel!  
  

Aredhel:  
    
What?  
  
[before any of their respective kindred can say anything more in reproach]  
  

Soldier: [aloud to his comrades]  
    
We could just bore a deep hole in the floor and fling them both in.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
But Lady Luthien said not to.  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
She didn't say anything about the White Lady.  
  

Second Guard:  
    
\--That's true.  
  
[their conversation arouses both appalled dismay and involuntary laughter from the lawful Eldar]  
  

Warrior:  
    
She only said not to pound him. That doesn't rule out pushing him, does it?  
  

Third Guard:  
    
But Ar-Feiniel is the High King's scion. Are we allowed to do things to her?  
  

Ranger:  
    
We just won't ask. So what if we get in trouble after?  
  
[pause -- glancing at the late High King of the Noldor in Beleriand]  
  
Besides, I don't think he'll mind it that much, even if he thinks he ought to.  
  
[Fingolfin winces and looks at the ceiling]  
  

Aredhel: [standing up, furious]  
    
I will not stay here and be insulted like this.  
  

Eol: [unfazed by any of it, with a casual wave of his hand]  
    
Don't worry, darling, I'll be here waiting for you -- before or after your ill-bred countrymen have indulged their natural inclinations for bloodshed.  
  
[she glares at him and sits down again]  
  

Apprentice: [worried frown]  
    
Don't you think you really ought to be encouraging your followers to solve problems without recourse to violence?  
  

Captain: [serious]  
    
They just did. At least for the moment.   
  

Finrod: [partly serious lament]  
    
Why couldn't I have been born to some quiet, obscure, uncomplicated family with no ambitions and no connections and nothing to do but employ my skills as I pleased?  
  
[Finarfin, struggling to control his tears, gives a short involuntary laugh at that]  
  

Fingolfin: [entirely serious lament]  
    
Why could I not have been blessed with servants possessing the intelligence and courage to call me down and restrain me, instead of the agreement and recklessness I mistook for the former virtues?  
  

Finrod: [snapping right out of humorous self-pity]  
    
Because you didn't choose people of that caliber to counsel you, uncle.  
  

Luthien: [troubled]  
    
That's an awfully cold thing to say, Finrod.  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
\--Yet the truth, I fear. 'Tis always easiest to choose those that but agree, and that enthusiastically, than those discouraging sorts who point out every possible reason not to follow the desired course, and what the possible consequences of any action are, and the likelihood of the least pleasant of them to occur as a result, nor is it particularly pleasant to surround one's self with those who do not hesitate to name your faults, as soon or sooner than to sing your praises, and still less when there is no question it be done from loyalty, not jealousy.  
  
[he bows his head to the Steward, who smiles wryly at this unsought praise]  
  

Finrod: [resigned]  
    
Edrahil, is there anything else you'd add to that?  
  

Steward: [sadly]  
    
Little -- save to remind you, my lord, that it requires two to hold converse, and words which were said did not go unanswered that Night. --As you yourself in recollected times recall, and have regretted that which you said in turn, which was little less in harshness.  
  

Finrod: [dark sarcasm]  
    
Little?  
  
[his father makes a hurried gesture]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
\---Nay, 'tis no matter--  
  

Luthien: [slowly]  
    
What other sorts of things did you say to your father, besides calling him irresolute and weak?  
  
[her cousin starts to answer -- stops, looks away in shame, tries again and shakes his head]  
  

Finrod:  
    
I -- can't we just say it was -- in anger, and let it go at that?  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
If you're willing to leave it like an open chasm between you.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You don't--  
  
[checks again -- helplessly]  
  
Luthien, I -- I can't. I'm -- not proud of what I said.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But too proud to repeat it.  
  
[pause]  
  
You'll have to address it someday, which you must have known, unless you stay here forever really.  
  
[Angrod and Aegnor shift restlessly, avoiding each other's eyes, and everyone else's]  
  

Finrod: [sighing]  
    
\--Yes. And yes. But I thought I would have a lot longer to put it off. --Like 'Tari.  
  

Finarfin: [earnest]  
    
'Tis no matter, my son.  
  

Finrod: [looking up, his gaze fierce]  
    
But it is. She's quite right. And I'm a coward, and--  
  
[overlapping]  
  

Finarfin: [amazed aside]  
    
Thou?!  
  
    
Luthien:  
    
You, a coward?  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--I don't want to revisit that -- that Darkening, I'd much rather pretend it didn't happen, just like you -- but it remains a yawning abyss which will swallow up all attempts to bridge it over, unfilled. If -- if you chose to remind me of my words, that would be one thing, but I -- cannot overcome my shame at them to utter them again, even to unsay them, not even though most people here heard them the first time.  
  
[Luthien looks at him seriously]  
  

Luthien:  
    
But he won't. You can See that as clearly as I.  
  

Finrod: [bleak]  
    
And I can't.  
  

Captain: [intense]  
    
Then set another the task in your stead, Sir.  
  
[Finrod turns and stares at him with uncertainty and worry]  
  

Finrod:  
    
That -- is no office for a friend.  
  

Captain:  
    
If not a friend -- then for whom?  
  
[after a moment Finrod nods assent, tautly, but looking somehow relieved that it's taken out of his hands, as does his father]  
  
I'll make report of you, for you, to both of you, my lords, and do you tell me if recollection fails me.  
  
[Finrod puts his head down on his forearms, hiding his face]  
  

Finrod: [muffled]  
    
Only not all of it, for Nienna's sake--  
  

Captain: [grim smile]  
    
No, I don't think there's any need for all six-hundred exchanges less ten with or without repeats. The last one is enough--  
  
[he pauses, gathers himself and goes on in a cold, clipped, ironic cadence recognizably familiar from Act II, the close of the Council, despite the archaic phrasing of this debate]  
  
"Nay, then, sir, do thou go back in duteous release, winking at thine own cowardice, and name thyself faithful and hold thyself high as Oiolosse in thine own esteem, and thou will -- but thou shalt ken, e'en as we, aye down all thy safe unthreatened changeless hours, that selfish and corroded center of thy spirit, which hath feigned a pious remorse at which offense nor thou nor we did e'er commit, nor might have circumvented, saving only had we forgone all prudence, and hasted e'en so rashly as our blood-reckless kin, and so there's naught of reason in yon self-blaming for Swanhaven so sad incarnadined -- no more than in thine accusatory claims upon me. --Indeed, 'tis well hast ceded up thy ring withal, for certes thou hast no claim longer upon thy folk that now, saving but for we that art 'most willfully rebel 'gainst the gods,' do wander without guide or guard to their defence and ordering. Desert them, in their darkest need, my father, and name thyself virtuous thereby, in empty Tirion -- and be that thy consolation, as our duty must needs be ours."  
  
"Deceive thyself, as thou wouldst, O Wise Elf, but do thou rest assuréd, thou dost not hide thy falsehood its truth from mine eyes; nor will I pardon thee, nay though the Lady of Sorrows in her own most high self should weep for thy pains, that hast broken apart not only our House, but my heart withal, stealing from me all my children that thy mastery be complete--"  
  
[he stops, as distraught and shaken as the Kings he has been quoting]  
  
\--I'm sorry.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
I can't do the rest either.  
  

Nerdanel: [mournful]  
    
There's none can wound another so bitter-keen nor killing deep, as them that long in love enwoven dwelt, and afterwhiles are riven--  
  
[it is Luthien's turn to put her arm around Finrod's shoulders in a gesture of consolation which is severely lacking by the looks on the faces of all gathered there; even the Lord Warden and the embattled spouses appear somewhat subdued at the recollected display of familial disintegration they have just witnessed. Finrod raises his head to face his father, even as the Captain rests his forehead on his hand, looking unwell and upset -- the Steward quietly urges Huan to get up and go around behind the dais to his friend, where the Hound crouches down behind him like a sphinx, leaning his jaws on the Captain's shoulder. (The Sea-elf, who was moving to make a similar gesture, stops and frowns at the Lord of Dogs.)]  
  

Finrod: [with effort]  
    
I regret . . . all of my words to you at Araman . . . except those which which were true, and remain so.  
  
[Finarfin doesn't say anything, just Looks at him]  
  
We couldn't have prevented the Kinslaying, and--  
  
[frowning]  
  
\--it was our duty to lead, and that fact of duty . . . all my consolation hereafter.  
  
[silence; Amarie sighs and shakes her head dispiritedly]  
  

Finarfin: [evenly]  
    
And I do ken full well thou wert no rebel miscreant nor rival unto me, my wiseling, and would unsay my charges of that cold hour. Canst thou yet pardon me, of thy pity, for that cruel anger and yet this last, the which I vow indeed be last, nor only latest--?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [softly]  
    
I do, sir.  



	64. Scene V.xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xii**

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere -- the brightening mists]  
  
[Beren looks around in the swirling grayness, wary and cautious as he rises slowly from the matted turf, but in a very hyper-alert way, not able to see what or where anything else might be. He whirls, as if hearing something, and then turns back as though glimpsing something from the corner of his eye, standing very still, taut as a bowstring -- and then someone reaches out of the fog to tap him lightly on the shoulder, with one quick finger, pulling back like a playful cat. Beren spins around, making a completely instinctive and utterly futile attempt to draw nonexistent sword with equally absent hand before flinging himself down and aside in a defensive roll, coming up in a crouch ready to fend off the person who has accosted him as best he can.]  
  
[He is not prepared, however, for peals of laughter, or an iridescent-robed figure too overcome at his reaction to speak for several moments, or even to stand straight. It is Vana, Orome's wife, but not as we have seen her before while watching the Loom: now she is The Ever-Young, the embodiment of Springtime, and although she is not much taller than Luthien, she is incomparably more beautiful and creepy -- for her visible manifestation changes from moment to moment, flowers and petals appearing and blending to form the semblance of her gown, her jewelry, and even perhaps her hair and features, so that the Maiden of Flowers appears not so much as an illusion, but as a glimpse of something far more complex and timeless than any single image could convey.]  
  

Beren: [sharply]  
    
That wasn't funny.  
  

Vana:  
    
Yes, it was.  
  
[she claps her hands delightedly]  
  
It was the most ridiculous thing I've seen all season. Come on, haven't you lain around long enough?  
  
[she darts forward, like a bird, and grabs his hand, tugging him up and spinning him halfway around as she keeps going, then releases him to stand and look at him critically.]  
  
\--What are you staring at me for? You've seen me often enough.  
  
[while he is standing there open-mouthed, she darts off into the mist again and vanishes, leaving Beren shaking his head in bewilderment.]  
  

Beren:  
    
But who--  
  
[she reappears behind him again and startles him by tugging on a strand of his hair]  
  
Aah\--!  
  
[he turns and gives her an accusing look -- but she is not there, having turned with him like a ballerina and stayed out of his angle of vision -- and then taps him on the shoulder again. This time he stays still, statue-like, as though frozen, while a long moment passes. Finally she sighs in exasperation and comes around to face him.]   
  

Vana: [sulky]  
    
You're no fun. --Why not?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um. --If you haven't noticed, I'm dead.  
  

Vana:  
    
\--So? Lots of people are.  
  
[she circles him again, in a very stylized movement, as if she were practicing dance-steps, seeming to ignore him -- then pounces again:]  
  
So why are you so grim and dreary all the time? You didn't used to be.  
  

Beren: [dry]  
    
How much time you got? This could take a while.  
  
[she waves her hand dismissively]  
  

Vana:  
    
You don't need to tell me about how your life was ruined by Morgoth several times over, everybody already knows all about that. I'm talking about now.  
  

Beren:  
    
It still happened.  
  

Vana:  
    
But you can't do anything about it now. --Can you?  
  

Beren: [getting stubborn-angry]  
    
It's still happening. Everywhere I go -- everyone is out to get me. It's not right.  
  

Vana: [disbelieving]  
    
Really?  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah--  
  

Vana: [halting in mid-pirouette]  
    
Everyone?  
  
[she gives him a very piercing Look from the corners  
of her eyes and waits until he looks down first.]  
  

Beren:  
    
Not everyone. But--  
  

Vana:  
    
So why are you worrying?  
Why don't you enjoy the time you have now?  
  
[she darts around him again, he turning this time  
to try to keep facing her]  
  

Beren: [frustrated]  
    
But you don't--  
[he breaks off in open-mouthed astonisment, seeing  
that the turf in the little circle around them is now lush and green as  
far as can be seen into the haze]  
  
You're -- Are you--?  
  
[but gets no further, as she has swung around the  
other way and caught hold of his shoulder, spinning him back off balance]  
  

Vana:  
    
You used to know how. But you've forgotten.  
  
[frowning]  
  
You've forgotten how to dance. How can you be fit for my sisters if you can't dance?  
  

Beren:  
    
Wha--  
  

Vana: [impatiently]  
    
Come on, you don't want to stay here, do you? This is boring!  
  

Beren: [gesturing to the fog]  
    
But you can't see where you're going in this--  
  
[she moves about behind him again and surprises him by covering his eyes with her hands for an instant]  
  

Vana:  
    
What does it matter, if you think there's nowhere to go?  
  

Beren:  
    
There isn't. Not for me at least. --Except away.  
  

Vana: [appearing in front of him again and folding her arms]  
    
Do you have any idea how tiresome you're being? Do you want me to leave you here alone?  
  

Beren: [blurting it out]  
    
No!  
  
[covering]  
  
I mean -- I'm not trying to be rude--  
  

Vana: [tossing her head]  
    
I'd hate to see you try, then.  
  
[long pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
I'm sorry. You're right, I don't know how to live anymore -- Tinuviel gave that back to me, every time, but I've lost it again --for good, I'm afraid.  
  

Vana: [scoffs]  
    
Oh, not for good.  
  
[she circles behind him and pulls his hair again]  
  
Besides, you've not tried looking, yet.  
  
[he moves away in annoyance]  
  

Beren:  
    
What's the point, though? Really? I'm asking -- if it's just going to be yanked away from me again--  
  

Vana: [flatly]  
    
This is so boring. --Misery, anguish, and world-sorrow. If it weren't for her, I swear -- it isn't as though I haven't things to do, you know, -- and I was already very put out with you for making Tav' so unhappy--  
  

Beren: [completely confused]  
    
Wh--what?  
  

Vana: [shaking her head impatiently]  
    
Never mind, it's boring, and it's over. I told them I would, anyway. Come on, I'll lead the way--  
  
[she reaches out her hand to him, but he draws back]  
  

Vana:  
    
Don't you trust me?  
  
[he shakes his head, half-smiling in a kind of amused dismay]  
  

Beren: [completely honest]  
    
No\--  
  

Vana: [sulking]  
    
Not even a little?  
  
[she puts her hands on his shoulders and looks at him very seriously]  
  
I promise I won't lead you into a green field of algae over a quagmire. --I couldn't have, anyway: you saw the waterflies above the surface and heard the peepers and knew, as your pursuers did not.  
  

Beren: [sounding confused]  
    
No, I did that -- the patrol that morning--  
  

Vana: [snippy]  
    
You made the marsh thaw? The frogs and bugs start mating? Really.  
  
[she gives him a narrow Look]  
  

Beren:  
    
No, that wasn't -- I mean--  
  
[without warning she spins him around and darts forward to end up standing in front of him again, staring at him intensely]  
  

Vana:  
    
Have I ever led you wrong?  
  

Beren:  
    
? ? ?  
  

Vana:  
    
\--Or would you rather still be wandering in the wood, your voice still frozen in your heart's midwinter?  
  
[while he is still struggling to understand, she lunges for his hand again and pulls him, urging:]  
  
Come on -- race you!  
  
[he resists, not actively, but anchoring her as she flits back and forth before him like a bird on a thin twig or a narcissus on a windy day, pulling him along behind her]  
  

Beren:  
    
Where to?  
  

Vana:  
    
The top of the hill.  
  

Beren: [looking around at the pale swirling mists around them]  
    
Which?  
  

Vana: [as she draws him up the beginning of a slope, increasing her pace]  
    
This one!  
  

Beren:  
    
But how can you not win, if you're leading me?  
  

Vana:  
    
Figure it out, silly!  
  
[he jerks his chin defiantly at that, and something determined and a little crazed comes into his expression, as he tries to keep pace with her. Just as they are reaching the crest of the hill he swings her around, using the slope to assist him, so that he is now leading, and as her speed carries her in an arc that helps spin them both up, he stops her, catching her with his right arm around her backwards-leaning waist before she can fall, as though they were dancing partners in a sculptured tableau.]  
  

Beren: [softly]  
    
I win--  
  

Vana: [also whispering]  
    
Yes--  
  
[For a long, long instant they stare at each other, the Ever-Young with a mysterious smile, Beren with a kind of amazement at his own daring: slowly, almost as if in a trance, he lifts his hand to touch her hair, her cheek, her lips, as lightly as if he were touching a wild bird, while she smiles up from his hold. It is a very intense, very strange moment -- which is promptly broken as the precarious balance of their pose is lost and they topple onto the grass, Vana with a wild shriek of laughter, he with a cheerful shout of alarm, and she leaps up, tugging him to his feet with a little impatient bounce in her step.]  
  

Beren: [laughing, his eyes sparkling]  
    
\--I won.  
  
[she nods, just as gleeful]  
  

Vana: [brightly]  
    
Now you must pay the forfeit!  
  
[he thinks she's teasing him]  
  

Beren:  
    
For winning?  
  

Vana:  
    
Of course!  
  

Beren: [uncertain if she's joking]  
    
What forfeit?  
  

Vana: [raising her eyebrows]  
    
What does it matter? You cannot undo what you've done. Or can you?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, no, but--  
  

Vana:  
    
Then it doesn't matter. You must pay the price.  
  

Beren: [still hoping it's a joke]  
    
So -- what does a goddess want from me?  
  

Vana: [offhand]  
    
Your sight.  
  

Beren: [dumbfounded]  
    
You--  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
\--you can't ask that of me!  
  

Vana: [brightly]  
    
Of course I can.  
  
[she pirouettes carelessly, ending up back in front of him, and he steps away in alarm]  
  

Beren:  
    
Why?  
  

Vana:  
    
Why not?  
  

Beren: [increasing panic]  
    
What good will it do you, to take my -- my sight?  
  
[she only shrugs, and darts around him, her lightheartedness seeming suddenly very sinister]  
  

Vana:  
    
Pay up.  
  
[he backs away again, and she keeps following, with an erratic, half-dancing motion, smiling the whole time]  
  

Beren:  
    
But this isn't right\--  
  

Vana:  
    
You won.  
  

Beren:  
    
By a trick--  
  

Vana:  
    
And? Haven't you always?  
  
[he takes another step backwards -- and into something dark and solid behind him, like the wall of a tower in the fog, and she steps in close, with no more room to retreat, definitely invading of personal space. Intense:]  
  
Will you disavow your deeds, then?  
  
[pause -- he stares back at her, not looking away]  
  

Beren:  
    
Never.  
  
[she reaches out and takes his face in her hands. He flinches, closing his eyes, and she kisses him hard and hungrily on the lips. The Power steps away suddenly, reeling a little as though dizzy, her eyes wide in shock]  
  

Vana:  
    
Oh!…oh…I never guessed…I never guessed you saw us that way…--No wonder my sisters love you so much!  
  
[he looks at her, blinking, dazed, and she laughs]  
  
Remember what I told you!  
  
[sfx -- vanishes into a spread of mixed flowers rising around him]  
  

Beren: [stunned]  
    
I guess that means all of it…--as if I could ever forget!  
  
[he turns to see what he fetched up against, and looks up -- and up -- to the black column rising behind him into the mist, wide as a tower and just as tall. Half unbelieving, he looks across through the brightening mist to where another dark, shrouded outline can be seen.]  
  

Beren: [hushed]  
    
The Corollaire --  
  
[he raises his hand to touch the bark of Telperion reverently, and the mist is cleared away in a sudden breeze, revealing not only the dead Trees fully but the mountains all around in the distance and right here, the sweep of land below leading out to the hill with the white city of Tirion on its crest and out through the Pass, a glimpse of coast and blue horizon far off. (Note: as the light changes from foggy pallor to the clarity of dawn, everything in the scene is awash in radiant morning color -- including Beren: no longer ghostly, his worn cast-offs and tatters richly glowing in tones of sienna and umber, granite and kingfisher blue of his Elven knight's cloak, the browns and grays no more drab than burnished wood or rain-wet leaves against the sky; this remains so throughout the entire Corollaire sequence.)]  
  
\--Is this real?  
  
[There is a sound behind him of wind in branches, not terribly loud, the prolonged rustle of a species whose leaves are very lightly hinged to their twigs, such as birches -- he turns again, and sees -- a beech tree, unbelievably tall, its leaves shimmering in the morning, where there was none as they raced up the hill, directly between the Two, and he falls on his knees, bowing his head in homage.]  
  
\--My Lady\--  
  

Yavanna: [voice heard as camera focuses on Beren]  
    
Rise, my Champion -- it's a little late for such formality, don't you think?  



	65. Scene V.xiii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she pronounces "illusion" archaically, with a sibilant "s" instead of the "zh" sound, which makes it sound not unlike "Elysium".]

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xiii**

  
  
[the Hall]  
  
[Luthien is looking down at the stretch of dais between her and the more orderly part of her audience with rather a bemused expression as her cousin and his foremost counselor kneel on the stones building a large map of the sort first seen in Act II, an illusion of topography and vegetation which looks both like an ambitious architectural model made of silvery light, and a very lumpy glowing carpet. By their expressions, their living friends and relations find it at least as peculiar as she does.]  
  

Finrod:  
    
So did you come out of Doriath here, or further up, here?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Hmm…I'm not really sure -- it didn't look anything like that when I was there, after all. It was sort of looming over me, you see--  
  

Finrod: [briskly interrupting]  
    
Well, let's turn it this way instead--  
  

Steward: [stopping him]  
    
I don't think that is going to help, meaning no disrespect to the Lady, since--  
  

Finrod: [cutting him off with a frown]  
    
You set Watchtower Number Ten in the wrong place.  
  
[pointing to a section]  
  

Steward: [looking hard at the map]  
    
I did not.  
  

Finrod:  
    
I should know, Edrahil, I put it there myself in the first place.  
  

Steward:  
    
The tower, indeed, my lord -- but surely not the hill? That did predate our arrival in Beleriand, I believe.  
  

Finrod: [exasperated]  
    
That's what I meant. The hill is too far west.  
  

Steward:  
    
Far from it.  
  

Luthien: [mildly]  
    
You should know, none of that is anywhere near where I was.  
  

Finrod: [pointing]  
    
Look. It should be a league and a half from Eleven, but that would put it right there--  
  

Luthien:  
    
So does it really matter if it's all correct?  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--which is in the middle of the Narog!  
  

Steward:  
    
And I might point out, were I so inclined, that 'twas not I who drew the watercourses.   
  
[Luthien shrugs and gives up, somewhat bemused; the lawful Eldar look rather dismayed. Camera shift to the back ranks of the steps, where the Elf of Alqualonde is scowling at the Lord of Dogs, who keeps giving her worried, eye-rolling glances over the Captain's back, the latter having his head down resting on his arms]  
  

Captain: [without looking up]  
    
Please stop glaring at Huan, Sea-Mew.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
How do you know that I am, if you attend not?  
  

Captain:  
    
You're making him whine and twitch.  
  
[lifting up his head and looking at her]  
  
It's not necessary, is it? He already knows you don't forgive him, and there are more appropriate targets for your anger present.  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But I am afraid of that one, still, when I am not too angry to recollect it.  
  
[she looks across them at the Lord Warden, and back down again hastily, and shudders]  
  

Captain:  
    
But not of Huan.  
  
[she gives him a sidelong Look but doesn't reply, while the Hound rolls his eyes in doggish worry towards her]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I will not make him bark again.  
  
[Huan gives a hesitant tail thump; she tosses her hair]  
  
It is much too noisy.  
  

Steward:  
    
No, Sire, I did not make it too long -- every wretched ell of it that I ever travelled, and no more, 'twixt there and Teiglin!  
  
[Finrod makes an impatient exclamation and gesture over the map, while Luthien watches them in tolerant amusement]  
  

Teler Maid: [worried frown]  
    
Why do they quarrel over such a small matter now?  
  

Captain:  
    
Because it is a small, unimportant matter, and why did you come home and snap at my sister whenever you'd gone down to hang about on the steps of the Mindon and been snubbed by Edrahil?  
  
[pause]  
  

Finrod: [disgruntled]  
    
What scale are we using, anyway? I don't think it's the same overall.  
  

Steward:  
    
The scale is irrelevant, so long as it maintains internal consistency.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Because Suli' did not mind it and I was cross and joyless.  
  

Captain:  
    
Well then, there's your answer.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Well, exactly -- and how can we tell that if we don't know what it is?  
  

Angrod: [mostly aside]  
    
Please, just stop it, would you?  
  

Steward: [patronizing]  
    
Very well, Majesty -- choose a measure and set a distance, and we'll refigure it from there.  
  

Luthien: [rueful, to her relations near and distant, living and dead]  
    
\--I don't think it took me this long to cross the Talath Dirnen on foot.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You are cross and joyless as well.  
  

Captain:  
    
True.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Why did you do it, when you would not ere now?  
  

Captain: [shrugging]  
    
Situation changed. They do that, you know.  
  
[meanwhile the Doriathrin Lord has gotten involved in correcting the map, which is getting bigger by the moment]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
\--No, your Majesty, my lord, I must declare you are both wrong, in setting the Road so nigh to Malduin there…  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you said you would not, and it would do more harm than good!  
  

Captain: [with another small shrug]  
    
It needed to be done, and no one else could in that particular given circumstance. Command responsibility, it's called.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you did not manage it at all well.  
  

Aegnor: [to the ceiling]  
    
Surely no one's surprised by that--!  
  
[the Captain winces; as the Sea-elf contrarily turns a fierce glare on her liege lady's son, the latter's brother elbows him sharply in the ribs. Aegnor gives Angrod a glare in turn, but Angrod stares his sibling down, or at least away.]  
  

Teler Maid. [more subdued]  
    
I am sorry. But it is true nonetheless.  
  
[the map has now crept along almost the entire bottom tier of the dais, up to Angband, and Fingolfin is correcting their placement of the northwestern mountain ranges, while Luthien looks on with increasing ironic humour, others of the Ten offer suggestions, Finarfin and Nerdanel at least find it fascinating, as does the Apprentice (though Elenwe does not seem much interested), Aredhel is sulking, and Eol is pretending he isn't interested in it at all. (Amarie is watching Finrod with a cold and quite expressionless countenance.)]  
  

Captain: [nods]  
    
Nonetheless -- it was enough.  
  
[sighing]  
  
Edrahil couldn't do it -- that would have made things far worse, even if he had been there for it all and not off agonizing over whether he dared set foot on what was, when you come right down to it, just a very deep lot of water on top of an even deeper lot of water.  
  

Finrod:  
    
That should be a little more to the right--  
  

Fingolfin: [strained]  
    
Nephew, I do not tell you where your capital city was.  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--Because you don't know--  
  

Fingolfin: [smoothly]  
    
Nor would I, if I did.  
  

Teler Maid: [in a tone of quiet scorn]  
    
It is so foolish, that he does fear the Sea.  
  
[as the Captain gives her a level Look, defensively]  
  
You never did.  
  

Captain:  
    
No. . . I'm afraid of things like being unable to see or move or breathe freely, or of being completely powerless to help someone else, -- or of the people I trusted unquestioningly to make the best choices for the best reasons, suddenly turning on each other and mauling each other without regard for truth or kinship.  
  
[Aegnor makes as if to say something, then stops; Angrod stares at him, but he feigns to be absorbed in watching their eldest sibling wrangle with their uncle over the positioning of the forts of the Leaguer.]  
  

Aglon: [aside]  
    
You'd think those who are unfit to be named among the Noldor would at least have the sense of shame, if nothing else, to refrain from displaying that fact!  
  
[his erstwhile adversary looks around at the number of people present, then at his solitary state]  
  

Captain: [to Huan]  
    
Dumb, but brave, no question.  
  
[the Sea-elf giggles but quickly ducks out of the Feanorian's line of sight]  
  

Aglon:  
    
Outnumbered or not, I am warranted in despising you for your . . . servility and lack of regard for our people's higher station.  
  

Captain: [shaking his head in disgust]  
    
I do not understand how you can sit there and mock us for being proud to be servants of our King, when your own life hinged on being Celegorm's gatekeeper.  
  

Aglon: [hot indignation]  
    
Lord Feanor's House are worthy lords and it is an honor to serve them, and give whatever aid one can to their efforts.  
  

Captain: [snorting]  
    
This is why I clobber you people, because I haven't the patience to go round and round in endless circles with you, trying to get you to see how you're being inconsistent.  
  
[the Warden gives him a sullen glare and looks away.]  
  
The difference between us is -- well, one of them, at least -- is that I'm honest about wanting direction and guidance, if no more than the reassurance that someone with greater knowledge, understanding and dispassion is there to back me up or call me down if need be, so I don't have to constantly second-guess the whole many-sided situation and my own judgments, to wit, should I be doing this at all? Are we even supposed to be here? Does anyone in charge have the least notion of what's afoot, and if I'm really it \-- we've Morgoth's mercy of a chance of getting through this--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Wouldn't you agree that I at least ought to know the disposition of the blasted marshes, now?  
  

Steward: [very precise]  
    
If I may remind you, my lord, you were not in full possession of your faculties at the time. The channel proper of Sirion was here, not here. If that had not been so, we would have drowned -- which I am fairly certain was not the case.  
  

Finrod: [disgusted]  
    
Oh, stop \-- there, happy now?  
  

Captain: [disbelief evident]  
    
\--Don't tell me you'd rather have had ultimate responsibility for the possible death or capture of your lord, not merely your company, than being told -- Hold the Pass and stop them from getting through after us, no matter what? --I know which I would have prefered in the Sudden Flame.  
  
[the Warden does not answer; again Finrod's brothers have a quick silent interchange, but do not end up saying anything.]  
  

Steward:  
    
That depends, Sire -- what definition are you using?  
  

Captain: [after a momentary hesitation, quietly]  
    
\--I'm sorry about your brother.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
I confess, I find it a matter of great wonderment to me, that ye do find it not troublesome i'the least wise, to make such Workings illusory, for lacking of all flesh.  
  

Apprentice: [reluctant and very apologetic]  
    
Er -- my lady, it's not really polite to mention the fact that people are -- dead, here.  
  

Warrior:  
    
No, that's all right, that's only scientific curiosity, not that the lady's disturbed by us being ghosts.   
  

Nerdanel: [smiling sadly]  
    
Nay, yet e'en so likewise.  
  

Warrior: [with a respectful nod]  
    
Exactly, ma'am.  
  
[this just leaves the disguised Maia more confused than ever]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
On the contrary, good mine aunt, 'tis most passing light, that hath not weight of flesh thus interposéd 'twixt thought and world, that one verily might dwell most utter and complete, did so wish, within the pleasaunce of illusion.  
  
[Note: she pronounces "illusion" archaically, with a sibilant "s" instead of the "zh" sound, which makes it sound not unlike "Elysium".]  
  

Finrod: [offhand, still moving trees around]  
    
And then there's the possibility which has yet to be proven one way or the other, that everything here is illusory, in a sense.  
  

Finarfin: [jolted out of his brooding]  
    
All?  
  

Finrod: [looking up from the project for the moment]  
    
Right -- that none of this environment is extant in the same way that, say, the Big Island exists, or Arda itself, or our halls within Tirion, any more than a painting of a house is the same as the house itself, even if it were painted on screens around one so that someone walking through might not be able to tell without touching the walls that they were cloth instead of stone.  
  

Aredhel: [rolling her eyes]  
    
Oh, Stars, this is too absurd.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You can't prove it isn't so, all the same.  
  

Angrod: [guardedly]  
    
Lord Namo got very put out when you said that last time.  
  

Finrod: [gesturing to the arches overhead]  
    
I don't mean that the Halls themselves are necessarily unreal. Only that whatever we perceive here might well be as much a matter of Their willing and mental images of it, as our own perceptions of ourselves are our own. --One greater Working, making it possible for us that are discorporate to feel at home.  
  
[pause]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
And what, child, of we that bide here most presently enflesh't?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Either the same -- or else you might be but dreaming, and your bodies still Outside.  
  

Amarie: [outraged]  
    
Nay, I ken well that I dream not!  
  

Finrod:  
    
How?  
  

Luthien: [thoughtful frown]  
    
Hm. I'm really not sure, myself. It all looks and seems very real - but then it would, wouldn't it?  
  

Amarie:  
    
Forasmuch as were't mine own, 'twould be other than this, in truth!  
  

Finrod: [carefully bland]  
    
Against the Weaver's workings, and Lord Namo's -- you'd back your own strength, then?  
  
[she stares at him angrily, caught ought; he goes on as if not aware of her dilemma]  
  
What this place looks to be, to one of the gods \-- or to the One -- I am not sure, as much as I am sure from all the evidence that it does not appear exactly the same to each of us, and that our own will changes not only our own perceptions, but may also shift those of others near us. That's all.  
  
[to Elenwe]  
  
I must say, dearest cousin, your garden in Tirion is superb. One can almost recall color therein.  
  

Elenwe: [self-deprecating]  
    
Aye, well, 'tis long enow I shall have Worked it, verily.  
  

Finarfin: [to Fingolfin]  
    
What makest thou of such theorem -- or indeed must I declare, theorem passing strange and troublous, my brother?  
  

Fingolfin: [shrugging]  
    
It does not seem to matter much one way or the other, ultimately -- Majesty.  
  
[Finarfin looks at him warily, but his elder is smiling at him with a faintly-rueful expression of shared sibling humour, and precedes to manifest a chessman, raising his eyebrows as he continues:]  
  
So that I might conjure me up the semblance of my diversions, for myself it changes nothing if the floor beneath my gaming table be as phantasmal as the board, if your son's most troublesome speculation, that there be no hall of very hollowing, but all here's solid rock, and thus the Halls to be enlarged ever without difficulty, by virtue of their merely artificial state.  
  

Finrod: [who is frowning rather hard at a section of the lower Sirion]  
    
Mind you, uncle, I don't think that possibility's particularly likely -- it would require that the Weaver have broken an imaginary lamp in a fit of anger, then gotten upset over that and flung it at us, which would seem to be taking a bit of playacting rather far and indicate that she herself had gotten caught up in her own illusions, which in turn just doesn't fit with what I know of the Powers at all. --Though it would explain how it's so easy to move them around, and so hard to map them -- or how there's no consistency of distance or travel here. One explanation, at least.  
  
[to the Steward, indicating some detail of the map]  
  
\--What about that?  
  

Fourth Guard: [wry]  
    
Whatever you do, Sir, don't mention that possibility to Beren.  
  
[checks -- to Luthien]  
  
I'm so sorry, my Lady.  
  

Luthien: [serene]  
    
Don't be. I know that he's isn't lost.  
[to the mapping team]  
  
That looks rather different from the image I saw in the Hall of Maps.  
  

Finrod: [looking up again from where he's kneeling, pleased]  
    
Oh, did you see that? What did you think of it?  
  

Luthien: [sighing]  
    
Mostly -- that's how much further I'm going to have to walk? And then, -- that it was incredibly beautiful.  
  

Finrod: [with a touch of mischief]  
    
Edrahil made that, you know.  
  

Steward: [tolerant patience]  
    
Aye, my lord, even as you made Nargothrond, in degree proportionate to its lesser scale.  
  
[pointing]  
  
If you're going to put in ponds of that small size, her Highness will never get a chance to resume her narrative.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Don't be absurd, it won't take that long.  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
And that is a saying that has never been heard before.  
  

Ambassador: [dryly]  
    
One does wonder if Lord Namo will be quite as indulgent as my master your uncle, Sire…?  
  

Captain: [calling down to them]  
    
Oh, I'm sure he won't mind stepping over him ever time he has to hold an audience, really. Nor her ladyship.  
  

Finrod: [mock indignation]  
    
Hey there, enough -- that project only took…er, right. I suppose we ought to finish it up, oughtn't we?  
  

Steward:  
    
We, my lord?  
  
[As the Captain is scratching Huan's nose with a more cheerful expression, (and Finrod's brothers are looking rather wistful at the easy camaraderie of the preceding exchanges,) the Sea-Mew edges up closer to them and pokes him on the arm]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Well?  
  

Captain:  
    
Well, what?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Well, did he or did he not? Make that other map?  
  

Captain: [shrugging]  
    
It was his idea; he got permission -- coordinated the research -- planned the program of the illustrations and their sequence -- chose the colors -- assembled a group of artists to carry it out -- might perhaps have actually touched the murals twice in the course of correcting its lines. What do you think?  
  

Teler Maid: [raising her eyebrows]  
    
I think it most odd that they do quibble over it then.  
  
[the Lord Warden breaks into the ensuing pause with an abruptness reminiscent of a bird-of-prey's sharp movement]  
  

Aglon: [impatient]  
    
Well?  
  

Captain: [shaking his head]  
    
This again! Well, what?  
  

Aglon:  
    
Aren't you going to say anything else?  
  

Captain: [bemused]  
    
Almost certainly. It's rather a habit, I'm afraid.  
  
[the Warden gives him a very dark Look and snorts indignantly, but does not further explain. Finrod sits back and looks down at the carpet of three-dimensional illuminated terrain appraisingly]  
  

Finrod:  
    
That should do it, I think.  
  

Luthien: [hesitant]  
    
It still seems a bit off.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It's probably the difference in perspective that's causing it. At least--  
  
[with an ironic grin, to his chief counselor]  
  
\--let's hope so!  
  
[they get up and resume their former places on the steps, the Steward giving his lord a hand up; as the youngest of the Kings present circles the image he intersects, quite unawares, with his father's ankle, causing the latter to flinch not with fear but distress; the late High King, observing, reaches out to comfort the living, and then catches himself -- but Finarfin gives his brother a grateful and appreciative look all the same. As Finrod sits down by Luthien's side, he whistles]  
That's a great deal of map, isn't it?  
  
[to Luthien, a bit chagrined]  
  
Sorry.  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head]  
    
It's all right, I understand.  
  

Angrod: [muttering]  
    
He's put Mithrim in the wrong place.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
No, he hasn't; it's the angle, that's all.  
  

Angrod:  
    
I don't think so.  
  

Aegnor:  
    
Fine -- you get him going again now that he's calmed down.  
  

Eol: [contemptuous]  
    
Of course they would leave out Nan Elmoth.  
  

Aredhel: [looking around at him, and in the same tone]  
    
Stop being stupid -- the map doesn't go that far east. I don't see my home on there, either, do you?  
  

Luthien:  
    
That's a deliberate omission, though, I'm guessing, since it must be right in there somewhere--  
  
[she points towards the topography of the Crissaegrim]  
  

Aredhel: [sitting up straight, shocked]  
    
How do you know where it is?  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
Well, I saw it -- or what I presumed it must have been, unless there are more secret Cities tucked away in Beleriand than our spies ever heard of.  
  

Finrod:  
    
You actually saw Gondolin?  
  

Luthien:  
    
I saw a stone city, not like ours, but like a big white water-lily in a cup of water--  
  
[Elenwe seems really interested, for the first time, but doesn't interrupt]  
  

Aredhel: [giving Luthien an incredulous Look]  
    
\--What?! It's nothing like that!  
  

Luthien: [speaking on as if the other woman hadn't been so rude]  
    
\--or like, like the Fortress might have been, if it wasn't contaminated and an awful lot bigger.  
  

Finrod: [suspiciously hoarse]  
    
\--How?  
  

Luthien: [blinking]  
    
Um. You mean, how did I see it? That was when the Eagles were taking us south from Angband. But that's a long while after, and I'm getting ahead of myself. But from the air, that's how.  
  
[he doesn't answer, and looks rather strained]  
  
What's wrong? Finrod?  
  
[Finrod shakes his head, lifting his hand in a waving-off gesture, but can't talk. The Steward half turns and grips his wrist reassuringly]  
  

Steward:  
    
My lord, let not the shock of unprepared-for recollection force from your thoughts that Lord Turgon is well, and safe, and his folk likewise -- and leave aside as unfruitful all concerns for the cause and breadth of your friendship's sundering until you may see him again to question him in person.  
  
[Finrod looks down, not speaking]  
  

Elenwe: [earnest]  
    
Ingold. And he hath changéd out all recognition, mine own dear love had ne'er willingly reft thy friendship, nor thee of his companioning. --Trust me, that hath a consort's comprehension, if thou mayest not trust thy friend in his absentry.  
  

Huan:  
    
[worried whine]  
  

Captain: [holding him down by his collar]  
    
No, he wouldn't appreciate it if you trod on everyone to go cheer him up.  
  

Fingolfin: [very knowing]  
    
The hurt is assuaged somewhat by knowing that my son and granddaughter bide secure -- but it abides nonetheless.  
  
[Finrod does not look up yet, but nods in answer]  
  

Aredhel: [distinctly uncomfortable]  
    
I don't see why you're making such a matter of it -- it isn't as if you'd likely have seen him more than once in a yen regardless.  
  
[the Steward turns his head and gives her an arctic Look]  
  

Steward: [ice]  
    
Highness, do not exaggerate that you may diminish your own unease for my lord your kinsman's sorrow even as your royal father's.  
  
[she does not quite dare to tell him to shut up, so contents herself with ignoring him.]  
  

Finrod: [straightening with a sigh]  
    
Well.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
It's a good thing the Enemy hasn't managed to construct any creatures capable of matching an Eagle for flying capability.  
  
[Aredhel's husband shakes his head, laughing scornfully]  
  

Eol:  
    
Is there no end to your frantic and implausible speculations, Noldo?  
  
[taut, hostile pause as the Ten and the Princes give Eol angry glares]  
  

Finrod: [wry]  
    
Not that I've discovered, cousin.   
  
[from Eol's expression, no epithet could be more insulting/annoying than that last; to Luthien:]  
  
So -- do you want to tell me about your journey now? You've waited long enough, I'm afraid.  
  

Luthien: [apologetic]  
    
Oh, there hardly seems that much to tell, when you come down to it. I mean, it was rather frightening and rugged -- but the fear was wasted, really. It was more boring than anything else -- walk all day; find water; scavenge something to eat; hide if it sounded like something larger than a mouse might be about, find a tree or a high boulder to rest on when I got too tired to walk any longer -- and do it all again the next day.  
  
[shrugging]  
  
I didn't see anything more dangerous than stags and boar -- no more sign of Orcs than of my father's scouts. I'd hoped that laying a false trail Northward would have misled them -- but I scarcely dared to hope it would work, if you know what I mean.  
  

Finrod:  
    
They probably thought you'd go the easiest way, through Brethil, right to the Crossings and strike upriver to the Fortress from there.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I'm not that foolish. I did try to do things prudently and systematically at least. I just didn't anticipate--  
  
[she glances at Nerdanel and checks herself]  
  
\--Fate.  
  
[shaking her head, ironic]  
  
To think of all the energy I wasted worrying about those Enemy armies my father said were waiting to swoop down and hunt me like a deer, when I could have been worrying full time about you all instead.  
  

Ambassador: [weary]  
    
Highness, your father only said that because it was the truth.   
  

Luthien: [coolly]  
    
Then why did I never hear anything before Dad comes out with it as if he'd only just thought of the possibility and were trying to convince himself that it were more than that?   
  

Ambassador: [sighing]  
    
My Princess -- no one wished to trouble you with useless fears, that you might no longer pass each day in full content -- or still worse, to cause you grief and guilt over the risk and cost of life to our warriors, as though it were indeed your own fault and responsibility that our ancient foe should seek in such a way to harm great Melian and our lord your father.  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien: [grim]  
    
You know perfectly well what it looks like, though -- don't you?  
  

Ambassador:  
    
…  
  
[overlapping, all as worried as if it were still a potential danger]  
  

Second Guard:  
    
Please, my Lady, it was the truth--  
  

Captain:  
    
Your father wasn't lying, Highness, I did hear about all that from Beleg--  
  

Finrod:  
    
Even if it sounds suspect and was manipulative, you can believe that part, cousin.  
  

Luthien: [with a sweeping-away gesture of her hand]  
    
Oh I do, I believe it -- now; Beren told me. And it does make sense, after all, really -- that He'd be trying to get me as part of all his other offensives against them, to use me as leverage to get Doriath to surrender, if he could take me hostage. Or for revenge. But--  
  
[she is still grim and her expression bitter]  
  

Finrod: [gently]  
    
\--Nevertheless, it's a difficult thing, to discover that those you've trusted to be wiser than yourself for all your life -- and more perfect in all abilities and virtue -- have deceived you. It calls all into question, everything that they've said before, and then afterwards to justify it -- not excluding whether or not it really was done for good intentions and for your own sake.  
  
[she nods, gloomily; he turns a challenging Look on the living Vanya present]  
  
\--Do you not agree, my lady?  
  

Amarie: [stifled, looking straight ahead]  
    
I deny thee not the right of thy words.  
  

Finrod:  
    
And what of the rightness of them?  
  
[finally she glares at him]  
  

Amarie: [through her teeth]  
    
I'll not allow thee right thereunto defend thy rebel soul, by holding claim of ill-doing 'gainst the gods, that one wrong be set to justification of the other.  
  

Luthien: [reasonable]  
    
But that isn't what he's doing. He's pointing out the fact that after one has ruined one's credibility in a great matter, the trail's been beaten for any subsequent crises to follow, so that both future credibility and moral authority are now forever going to be deservedly taken with a grain of salt. That's why we don't really trust the Noldor any more. --Present company excepted with exceptions, of course.  
  
[to Finrod, with a curious frown]  
  
\--Why salt?  
  

Finrod:  
    
Er -- what?  
  
[he is just as thrown as everyone else by both the non-sequitur and the rapid recovery from angry exhausted nervous wreck to competent member of an ages-old ruling House, both those who knew the Princess in life as much as those who have only seen her under present circumstances.]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Where does that expression come from, and what does it mean? Beren had no idea why they used it as a figure of speech.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Oh. It -- ah, it's used in chemical reactions.  
  
[as she keeps looking at him doubtfully, head to one side]  
  

Steward:  
    
There are also medical applications of the element, my Lady -- which must be ever tempered lest it do more harm than good, to mortal systems -- and there is a more likely route for the metaphor to have entered the mortal vernacular, I judge.  
  

Finrod: [nodding]  
    
Yes, that's a much clearer way of putting it.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Oh.  
  
[clearly not quite satisfied]  
  
He guessed it might be because you can make any old glop taste halfway edible, if you add salt to it, when you're messing out pottage.  
  
[the Ambassador winces at her idioms]  
  

Finrod:  
    
That -- could also be right.  
  
[pause]  
  
Dare I guess, how Elu reacted to you using North-country Sindarin about the place?  
  

Luthien: [rueful]  
    
Sounds like you already have.  



	66. Scene V.xiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.xiv

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Corollaire]  
  
[As Beren lifts his head we see that the Earthqueen has taken on her form as one of the Children of Eru, but here, out of doors and above-ground, her green dress glows in the early morning light and power coruscates from her like a waterfall in sunshine. No question that this is one of the Greater Powers who stands here, whatever her visible guise. She approaches him and rests her hands on his shoulders.]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Well done.  
  
[smiling, she pulls him up to his feet and continues to stand with her hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with an expression of tearful pride]  
  

Beren: [wonderingly]  
    
I…know you. --But I've always known you--  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Of course.  
  
[she draws her hands down his arms, taking his hand and holding his amputated wrist for a moment before reaching up to brush the hair away from his forehead]  
  
\--My bravest of servants.  
  
[still holding him by the hand, she turns and leads him to the eastern crest of the Corollaire, where she sits down in the grass and pulls him down beside her while he is still hesitating over whether it would be disrespectful. Putting her arm around his shoulders as if he were a younger sibling:]  
  
\--So. Is this real?  
  
[startled, he ventures to look at her directly, and realizes that she is teasing him a little, -- and starts to smile back]  
  

Beren:  
    
I think -- that so much of me is left -- is really here. --Whatever here means without a body.  
  
[with a faintly-confused expression]  
  
But -- it seems so real to me -- I seem real to me, I don't feel like a wraith here, even though it's -- Outside--  
  
[stretching, leaning back, lifting his head and closing his eyes, like a hound scenting the wind]  
  
The air -- the grass -- I can smell the breeze, taste the dew on it -- it doesn't feel like just memory this time--  
  

Yavanna: [tossing her head]  
    
Hmph. I should hope not.  
  
[she rubs his back gently, and he looks at her again, trying to understand]   
  

Beren:  
    
Are -- are you making all this happen -- for me?  
  
[she nods]  
  
I guess it's like when Tinuviel Sent to me in prison -- I never did understand if that was completely in my mind, or not -- I don't think she understood what I was asking, either…I said, "You were there. We were home," and she said, "I know, I was trying so hard to reach you, I didn't know if you were still here," and I kept trying to figure out if it was just a dream, or if I was really seeing it, and she just kept saying, "Well, yes, of course," and I figured it didn't really matter.  
  
[frowning intently]  
  
Except -- when I heard her in the dungeon, I was alive, so if it was real the way I still think of real then it was her changing the world outside me so that I really sensed it, but if it was a dream -- and I do know better now than to say, just a dream, but I still sort of think that way, telepathy isn't originally a mortal word at all, although none of these are, I guess…and you're being incredibly patient, listening to me ramble around like this--  
  
[Yavanna smiles without saying anything]  
  
\--so anyway, if it was all a dream, inside my mind, not the outside world changing but her voice affecting me directly, and I do think that has to be the case, because I don't think even a trumpet you could hear that far underground, much less a voice, then I was still there, only inside myself, so to speak -- so if that's what you're doing now, only more so, because this is even realler than that was -- where am I then? See, if I'm a ghost, then I still must be somewhere, right? But I'm having a hard time figuring that out, and how it would work really -- I mean, outside myself. Because I'm not making this up for me, you are.  
  
[frustrated]  
  
I don't have the words to explain this.  
  

Yavanna: [dryly]  
    
I can tell you've been spending far too much time around those "Wise Elves" for your own peace of mind. The words you're looking for are "immaterial extramental reality," I believe.  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
That sounds about right.  
  
[gesturing down towards the tranquil, uninhabited sward just below them]  
  
\--So, if someone was out there, and you didn't think of putting them in this -- extramental reality, I wouldn't see them, would I? And if they looked up at the Corollaire, and happened to be looking on this side, they'd see you just sitting here talking to your self? --Apparently?  
  

Yavanna: [raising an eyebrow]  
    
What makes you think they'd see anyone at all?  
  

Beren:  
    
You can be invisible if you want to? Oh. Yeah. You're a goddess, I guess you can if you want. Or…  
  
[he frowns, worrying it over]  
  
\--Are you even here at all? On the real Corollaire? Or is this just the idea of it that's in your thoughts?  
  
[still smiling, she nods, once, deliberately; he looks down, biting his lip]  
  
I guess I asked for that one. Um. What I'm trying to say is, how much of this is real? except what I'm really trying to ask is, what is "real"--?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
We are.  
  

Beren: [half-smile, teasing her just a little--]  
    
So if you forgot about me would I stop existing?  
  

Yavanna: [quizzical]  
    
Did I make you?  
  
[he blinks at this, uncomprehending -- reaching down into the grass on her other side, she picks up a large snail, which comes out of its dormant state and begins to crawl across the back of her hand, waving exploratory eyes as she offers it to Beren, who lets it transfer itself to his knuckles, regarding with a charmed smile]  
  
\--Not even the solid shell, that once protected your moving self as this little one's does, as integral and as hardily lost, is truly of my making, for all that the elemental substance of your flesh was taken from the works of my fashioning, even as theirs takes its nourishment from my husband's. --Though that did allow me to clothe you more appropriately while you remain my guest.  
  
[as Beren looks at the Earthqueen, confusion becomes comprehension -- swiftly followed by utter embarrassment; blushing furiously he scrutinizes the gliding mollusk rather than meet her eyes. She regards him with gentle curiosity:]  
  
\--Why does that shame you? Or are you ashamed of your housing itself -- that love once gave you dwelling, made for you a shelter and warmth and garb for your naked soul, like every least furry animal? Do you think it nobler then, to be self-incarnate as we, taking shape but of our own will and power from the elements -- as young Melian did, for love -- than to come into Arda involuntarily, like this little one?  
  
[she scoops up a small rodent from the hillside, mouse or vole or similar critter, and holds it between them cupped in her palm]  
  
\--Or Luthien Tinuviel?  
  
[Yavanna looks at him with earnest expression, waiting patiently for an answer. After a moment he carefully lets the snail crawl down onto grass and reaches over to stroke the little mammal sitting in her hand as it grooms its whiskers:]  
  

Beren:  
    
No. I'm not ashamed of being born.  
  
[looking up at her meaningfully]  
  
I'm not ashamed of being shaped of Earth.  
  
[with a slightly-rueful smile]  
  
\--Little bit embarrassed at the idea of you knowing me that thoroughly that you can remember all this--  
  
[gesturing across his body]  
  
\--so right, but I guess I can deal with that, since it never bothered me to think of it when I was living, having been born.  
  
[in a light, bantering tone, as he recovers from his discomfiture]  
  
\--Thank you for the outfit, by the way. I always seem to be getting given shelter and clothes -- seems like another thing hasn't changed, being dead. You know, I'm supposed to be old enough to look after myself--  
  
[a sudden expression of alarm comes over his face]  
  
Hey, does that mean that  
\-- that I was in their thoughts the same way I'm in yours, earlier, when…  
  
[he hides his face against his knees in mortification as Yavanna smiles amusedly, letting the mouse-creature run freely from one hand to the other as she sits peacefully in the shadow of the dead Trees…]  


  


* * *

_to be continued…_


	67. Scene V.xv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xv**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[there is a certain definite tension in the atmosphere, and a more alert aspect to all the listeners, which might be the consequence of recent events, or of those which are about to be reached in the story being told. Huan is hunkered down at the back, hard up against the footing of the Thrones, trying very hard to be as unobtrusive as possible for a horse-sized canine.]  
  

Luthien: [in a frank, matter-of-fact tone]  
    
The whole thing is very difficult to talk about, because it's very hard even to think about properly at this point. I can't sort out well what were my impressions then, without them taking color from the light of subsequent revelations, and I'm not the same person I was then, either--  
  

Eol: [interrupting]  
    
\--No, you're just a dead one, silly girl. You're still the same person.  
  

Luthien: [with a controlled edge]  
    
That wasn't what I meant, cousin. By the time we returned home finally -- long before that in fact -- it was--  
  
[thoughtful pause]  
  
\--as if Luthien was another country, and Tinuviel someone who had lived there, once, but long ago and that land so far distant that it perhaps didn't exist and there could be no going back to there in any event.  
  
[briskly again]  
  
So, as it happened, where we were when Huan caught me wasn't as far from the City as it seemed, but I'd no way of judging distances out there, away from Doriath where I knew the landmarks, and being carried on horseback instead of walking. I didn't know we were going so much slower than need be, until much later, and then I realized that they must have been working out their approach to dealing with Orodreth and everyone else that was part of the following of House Finarfin.  
  
[with a very edged, lopsided smile]  
  
They just forgot to take into account two other people.  
  

Captain: [frowning to himself]  
  
    
Now, why were they out there at all? That wasn't part of their normal preferred range -- what were they hunting up in the northern borders for, anyway?  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
Apparently there were a lot of Wargs up there lately. I don't know, I never saw any. But that's what people said, besides themselves -- when we got back to the City -- I mean, when they got back to the City and I got there -- everyone was asking them if there had been many this time and congratulating them on doing such a good job of defending the Realm.  
  
[the Captain makes a disgusted sound and shakes his head]  
  
Yes, well, the fact that I never saw a Werewolf in my travels made me wonder at first if they'd deliberately gone to intercept me, if they'd Seen me coming, but it seems there was legitimately an increased threat reported by the border patrols, and that was the reason for the hunt they were holding. But I did glean from things overheard and said carelessly, by them and by the guards from their following, that it was partly a deliberate decision to make a good showing, focus attention on how active and proactive the two of them were being -- as compared to Orodreth sequestered in his office and buried under stacks of parchment.  
  

Finrod: [quiet]  
    
How was he doing, as far as you could tell?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Completely overwhelmed, from what I could see. --Now I really don't know how things were supposed to run, because I know you do them so much more different from Menegroth, but I definitely had the impression that even though things seemed normal on the surface -- not surface, you know what I mean -- nobody was starving, the City still had light and heat and there weren't any signs of want about -- that despite that, it was total chaos underneath and Orodreth was finding it quite beyond him to manage both your jobs at once.  
  
[to the Steward, who is brooding over her words, leaning forward and putting her hand on his shoulder]  
  
\--My lord, don't agonize over feeling somewhat satisfied that your Work was finally recognized and appreciated, if too late -- your friends will certainly be doing it for you, and you're not pleased about it any more than about the cause of it.  
  
[he looks somewhat surpassed at her perception and assessment and nods once in acquiescence]  
  

Finrod: [sadly]  
    
I had hoped that by my according him authority in view of all, he would have had more confidence in doing what needed to be done. He's a very able administrator -- there were never any significant complaints, nothing beyond the usual grumbling on all sides that there never were enough resources or time to meet all expectations, or that expectations weren't being met to satisfaction -- in all the centuries he ran Minas Tirith for me.  
  

Aegnor: [sharp]  
    
Don't feel sorry for him, Ingold -- it was his duty to stand by you, not to take the easy route of non-resistance (again--!) and he doesn't deserve any pity if it turned out to be a tougher job than he'd anticipated.  
  

Finrod: [very gently]  
    
It's much more complicated than that.  
  
[he is looking at their father as he speaks; Finarfin's countenance is as expressionless, and fragile, as a glass mask. Luthien looks over her shoulder at the Princes:]  
  

Luthien: [earnest]  
    
Why do you blame Beren, and not him, anyway?  
  
[longish pause]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Because they don't want to think about one of us standing by and doing nothing to aid or defend the other. Easier to lay all the blame on those outside the family.  
  

Aegnor: [hotly]  
    
Don't speak for us -- you're not me!  
  
[their sibling nods agreement]  
  

Finrod:  
    
All right. --What would you say different to what I said only now?  
  
[they both look sullen, Angrod more gloomy, Aegnor more tense; but don't actually have anything to add as it turns out]  
  
It's the same problem with facing the fact of their friends' complicity.  
  
[it is Aredhel's turn to glare now as well, but she doesn't say anything yet]  
  

Finarfin: [softly]  
    
Yet thou dost not hate thy brother?  
  

Finrod: [shaking his head]  
    
No. Oh, no. I understand Orodreth far better now. I admit I was very angry with him at the outset, and -- bitter, for quite some time thereafter . . . and it still twinges, now and then, the way old scars do -- but the anger died when I understood what he'd been up against, and why he couldn't face the thought of conflict again. He was right; I shouldn't have let him follow me from Aman.  
  
[his father shakes his head in turn, very definite]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Nay. In that hour thou couldst no more have stopped him, from staying by side of thee his dearest friend, than I to hold ye back. And he did blame thee for his -- will, he did most assuredly to err.  
  
[Finrod looks uncomfortable, but somewhat reassured]  
  

Angrod: [taut]  
    
The fact remains that he broke, and you didn't.  
  

Finrod: [in a patient, we've-argued-this-before tone]  
    
He fell back on a stronger position in order to save as many as he could from the Enemy, rather than stay, and die, and give to Sauron not only the Fortress but casualties we couldn't afford with it.  
  
[before the brothers can raise any more objections]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
I must aver that I hold still 'twould have been a better risk, had young Orodreth made the attempt I died in making, and hazarded his own life against that of his adversary, so that the loss of one where one's own side was losing might chance to take the head from the winners and make the field level, if not recover victory thereby.  
  
[this gets him disturbed Looks from their living relatives]  
  

Angrod: [contrarily defensive]  
    
No, that would have been a completely wasted gesture, uncle, you know he isn't a warrior on a level with you or Fingon--  
  

Aredhel: [not quite aside]  
    
That's a very kind way of putting it--  
  

Finrod: [forcefully]  
    
We are interrupting our royal cousin's story once again. --Luthien, pray continue, if you please.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Well. At first I thought they just didn't believe me, and then I thought they couldn't because of some strange Dark influence over everyone's minds -- and then I didn't want to believe for a long time that they just didn't want to believe me. Afterwards I found out that most people were very uncomfortable having me about trying to force them to think about it, but I just thought it was surreal the way everyone was still having parties and enjoying themselves and worrying about trivial things -- and then they'd ask me why I was crying and wouldn't I like to dance perhaps?--!  
  
[darkly]  
  
Then there were some who were, as it turned out, laughing at me all along as I tried to wake the rest of the City up to the crisis.  
  
[back along the dais, the Sea-elf whispers to the Captain, who nods affirmatively]  
  

Nerdanel: [tired]  
    
Nay, seek not to spare my soul from anguish, good Luthien, else thou must needs spend a wearisome longsome time thy tale a-telling, to periscribe all mentioning my sons their names.  
  
[they exchange a look of regret and sympathetic understanding]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I wish I didn't have to.  
  
[sighing]  
  
Anyway, the whole time there is very confusing and strange. I kept getting lost, and everyone kept smiling -- in the politest way -- at the poor native girl, overwhelmed at being out of the woods for the first time. I was dazed, and sick, and felt like I was missing part of me, and I thought sometimes that Beren must already be dead and I was starting to fade, and other times it seemed like I was in some illusion gone wrong and couldn't escape from it--  
  
[she is starting to fray a little again]  
  

Amarie: [weary exasperation]  
    
Nay, let not thy words to melt anew and drown thy tale its telling--!  
  

Luthien: [pulling herself together]  
    
I'm not going to start crying again. I'm just saying that it's hard for me to describe my adventures in Nargothrond, because half the time I don't know where exactly I was any more than I'm sure of what was going on, and a lot of it runs together as if it was the same but I know it wasn't, but I couldn't tell what time of day it was any more than I could tell where I was in relation to where I was -- had been, I mean.  
  

Steward: [straight-faced]  
    
We could construct a model of the City, if that would help, my Lady.  
  
[Finrod gives him a tiny, amused shove]  
  

Luthien: [smiling a little]  
    
Well, it turned out that it was because my power had been taken from me and locked away so I really was only partly there -- as soon as Huan brought me back my cape I was instantly recovered, mostly, and I wasn't disoriented at all. I think I could have found my way out by myself, then, even without Huan's guiding me, but of course it was much faster with-- where is Huan, anyway? Has he gone off again?  
  

Captain:  
    
He's up here, hiding, behind us, my Lady.  
  

Luthien: [looking round]  
    
What are you hiding for, dog? Why don't you come out here where we can all see you?  
  
[Huan wags his tail, lifting his head from his paws to give her a canine grin, but doesn't get up.]  
  
You don't need to be embarrassed -- all of us made mistakes, after all.  
  

Huan:  
    
[more vigorous tail-thumps]  
  
[but he still doesn't come to her]  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
All right, suit yourself.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Why don't you manifest your cape with you, here, by-the-by?  
  

Luthien: [wry]  
    
It didn't seem appropriate to show up showing off, or that's how it felt like it would feel, saying "I'm the one who knocked out Morgoth and don't you forget it!" It seemed -- hm, impolite, and as though it wouldn't be particularly helpful.  
  
[frowning grimly]  
  
Though now I'm not sure it or anything would make any difference one way or the other.  
  
[Finrod pushes her hair back where it has fallen in her face again and squeezes her shoulder consolingly, and she manages to give him a wan smile]  
  
Curufin wanted to try to figure out military applications for it, I heard -- but that wouldn't have worked in the end, since there's only one of me, and Celegorm's whole purpose in taking it away from me was to keep me from leaving so that I wouldn't be in danger. So there would have been a collision, ultimately, there.  
  
[as she makes this acerbic remark, Aredhel leans around and glares at her]  
  
Of course, when I say "danger," that only refers to danger-outside-Nargothrond, not to danger from Celegorm becoming besotted with me and abandoning all Elven standards of decent behaviour in his attempts to convince me to return his affections--!  
  
[Nerdanel closes her eyes briefly before returning her attention to her sketching]  
  

Aredhel: [sharply]  
    
What did you do to him?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Me?  
  

Aredhel: [snorting]  
    
No, the other you \-- of course you.  
  

Luthien: [blinking]  
    
I talked to him, listened to him, played chess against him -- I didn't use any of my power against him, if that's what you're getting at -- though that wasn't for want of trying! it just wasn't possible to awaken him from delusion when he wasn't deluded -- at least, not that way.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
There must have been something else.  
  

Luthien:  
    
What are you talking about?  
  

Aredhel: [scoffing laugh]  
    
Well, obviously. Just look at you.  
  
[shaking her head]  
  
There's got to be some reasonable explanation for why a Noldor prince would be taken by an uncivilized, ill-groomed Dark-elven barbarian he'd never even met before.  
  
[there are several suppressed "coughing fits" around the group at her words]  
  
Sorcery's the only one that comes to mind.  
  
[silence]  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
I did at first wonder why the White Lady was ill-at-ease in her brother's City, but no longer.  
  
[Luthien glances briefly at Nerdanel, who is completely preoccupied, to outward appearance, with copying the map of west Beleriand into her sketchbook and allows no flicker to cross her expression at the conversation's turns]  
  

Luthien: [glacially slow]  
    
You're saying it's my fault that Celegorm became obsessed with the idea of marrying me whether I wanted him or not and made that clear not only by word but by deed?  
  
[silence]  
  
How, exactly, am I supposed to have done that? --And why would I want to? Star and Water, I only went with them because they said they were friends of Finrod and would help me rescue Beren.  
  

Aredhel: [decidedly]  
    
Then there must have been some sort of misunderstanding on your part.  
  

Luthien: [levelly]  
    
No, I don't think so. That isn't the sort of thing one can misunderstand. It's like being shot at repeatedly from no range at all -- in some circumstances you could explain away a stray arrow as a hunting accident, but not that one.  
  

Aredhel: [getting still more definite]  
    
He isn't that sort of person -- he's not an Orc, a monster, he wouldn't do that! Neither of them.  
  

Luthien: [blunt]  
    
He might not have been the sort of person who would do that when you knew him -- but he certainly was then. And Curufin even Darker.  
  

Aredhel: [accusatory]  
    
Then what made him that?  
  
[pause]  
  

Luthien: [very deliberately]  
    
I think killing people for gain or anger, and not dire necessity, changes you. Even more than hunting, or fighting in defense, does. I think that after you've done that, and after you've spent long enough justifying it to yourself, it becomes impossible to See anything properly. You become like Morgoth, and once that impossible abomination has become possible to you, and righteous to you, then there's no reason you can't justify anything else you want to do -- any kind of taking and tyranny is open, after that theft of another's body -- why stop at a different sort? Insight is useless at that point, I'd guess, because one's vision is too distorted to allow for accurate perspective.  
  
[the Lord Warden of Aglon is shaking his head, but with a somewhat uncertain and dismayed look]  
  
\--That's why I stopped Beren from killing Curufin. The Enemy has enough servants as it is. I don't know that it would be impossible to recover from kinslaying, alive -- but it didn't seem advisable to find out.  
  
[Aredhel is gathering herself to respond, but the Doriathrin lord breaks in first:]  
  

Ambassador:  
    
But -- they weren't kin, then: he's mortal, and you two weren't -- wed, then.  
  

Luthien: [meaningful]  
    
If we were not akin, would we have fallen in love? There is as little distance between Men, and us, as between ourselves and the gods.  
  

Ambassador:  
    
But--  
  
[Luthien just Looks at him with one eyebrow raised; he covers his face with his hands, embarrassed]  
  

Amarie: [quiet but fiercely resentful]  
    
Needs must ever boast thy divine descent, Daughter of Twilight?  
  

Luthien: [coolly]  
    
Only when it seems relevant.  
  
[Aredhel is about to start in on Luthien again, but her husband gets there first]  
  

Eol: [snorting]  
    
That's what you get for trusting the Noldor. Elu and I agree on that, at least.  
  

Luthien: [curiously]  
    
How do you deal with the fact that you're partly Second Host yourself?  
  

Eol: [ominously cold]  
    
What did you say?  
  

Luthien: [puzzled]  
    
You know, about--  
  
[Aredhel breaks in before he can answer]  
  

Aredhel: [jeeringly]  
    
He doesn't. He won't talk about his parents at all. I only know because I got it out of his servants eventually. --It is funny, isn't it?  
  

Eol: [turning his anger on her]  
    
Who was it who told you? I swear, I'll--  
  

Aredhel:  
    
\--You'll what? We're dead, in case you hadn't noticed, idiot.  
  

Luthien: [intrigued]  
    
Is that why you hate the Noldor so much? Are you jealous because you think you ought to have been one of them? Or is that why you're so afraid of love, because it made your father stay when your mother was helping to look for Dad? Or both of those, I suppose both could be tr--  
  
[her kinsman sits forward, his eyes blazing, all his cool carelessness gone]  
  

Eol: [quiet menace]  
    
Luthien, stop talking now.  
  

Luthien: [looking at him with disbelief]  
    
Um -- no?  
  

Eol: [adamant]  
    
Luthien. You are a child, and you will keep silent among your elders.  
  

Luthien: [smiling sadly]  
    
Eol? That doesn't work. I'm not one of your dysfunctional followers who are willing to put up with your eccentricities for the sake of stable employment and security.  
  
[he grimaces at her, helpless to overwhelm her with his hypnotic aura, and subsides, aloof and haughty, while Aredhel smirks]  
  

Angrod: [shaking his head in disgust]  
    
'Feiniel, why did you marry this loser?  
  

Eol:  
    
Don't talk to my wife, Outlander.  
  

Aredhel: [to Eol]  
    
I'll talk to whomever I like, Master Smith! --Especially my kin.  
  
[to her cousin]  
  
Don't talk about my husband that way, do you hear me?  
  

Aegnor: [almost pleading]  
    
But 'Feiniel, why, why on the gods' green earth would you choose to take up with some repressive, antisocial, deranged hermit who's always telling you what to do? --And not to do?   
  

Elenwe: [to Finrod, wry]  
    
Dost not wish thou'dst chosen to abide most peaceably 'neath trellis by fountain's edge, in this its stead?  
  

Aredhel: [raising her voice]  
    
That's not how it was, you don't know what you're talking about--  
  

Aegnor: [going on regardless]  
    
It's almost as if you've been brainwashed except you act like yourself in every other way, only more so. It just doesn't make sense to anyone who knows you.  
  

Finrod: [frank]  
    
That much peace and quiet, I fear, would drive me crazy--  
  
[mischievous]  
  
Though who'd notice -- especially in present company?  
  

Aredhel: [turning to snap at him]  
    
\--Ingold, stop acting superior.  
  
[the dead High King looks at his living counterpart]  
  

Fingolfin: [bland]  
    
Shall we go for a walk, my brother, while our children bicker, and see all that there is not to see here, until they have sorted it out for themselves?  
  

Aredhel: [jabbing her dagger into the step for emphasis as she speaks]  
    
You're all judging everything from the outside, and you don't understand.  
  

Eol: [flatly, arms crossed as he leans back on the steps]  
    
You think you'll ever convince one of your people of anything? Trust me, it isn't going to happen.  
  

Finarfin: [bemused, to his sibling]  
    
Was e'en so, deemst thou, for our own parents in that former Day? Such wearisome dismay at folly?  
  

Fingolfin: [dry]  
    
What folly, -- parent of Finrod? For I seem to recall that you were ever busy pouring oil upon troubled fires, while we elders kindled them, you all the while blowing on coals in effort to put them out.  
  
[his younger brother winces -- but with a grin of mutual comprehension, though some of the Ten look a bit nervous at the interchange of jibes between Finwe's sons.]  
  

Angrod: [getting more and more exasperated]  
    
Cousin, you never could stand to have anyone telling you what to do.  
  

Apprentice: [brightly]  
    
As a matter of fact we think that's part of it.  
  
[pause]  
  
You see, since no one was ever willing to demand anything of her, nor to insist on her compliance in any regard -- or to, what's the phrase, "stick with it"? -- when they did try, it became uninteresting to her, and the continual pushing of boundaries began to find someone who would \-- and that's what she found in Master Eol here, someone who wouldn't give in to her, wasn't impressed by her birth or skill or adventures, and who would insist on things. And that makes him very fascinating to her, as well as a challenge to overcome.  
  
[gesturing with his hands animatedly]  
  
So she can't just walk away from him -- it isn't only that they're soulmates, it's a kind of magnetic thing where sometimes they pull together and sometimes they push apart, you see. --That's what my Master thinks, at least, and Lord Namo tends to agree, though of course nobody except them can be sure, and not even them probably, given how oblivious they are to everyone else's feelings but their own. Even each other's, except as one manipulates the other by them. --Though the Weaver thinks they're just selfish brats who deserve each other, and that she's as stubborn and self-destructive as Miriel without any of Miriel's excuses . . .  
  
[he trails off -- Aredhel is glaring at him with a very lethal expression, while the rest of her family look carefully elsewhere, except for Eol, who seems caught between wanting to laugh at his wife and to explode with indignation; the disguised Maia glances around at the Ten, concerned.]  
  
That wasn't a very diplomatic thing to say, was it?  
  
[the Captain shakes his head solemnly]  
  
\--Threnody! When will I learn to keep quiet sometimes?  
  
[Aredhel stands up, sheathing her dagger with a snap]  
  

Aredhel: [setting her right hand on the hilt of her sword]  
    
If you're going to talk about me in such an insulting fashion, infant, you're going to give me satisfaction for it.  
  

Apprentice: [mildly]  
    
I don't think I'm supposed to get into fights with the patients while I'm supposed to be keeping the peace.  
  

Aredhel: [tossing her head]  
    
I'll be happy to trounce you regardless.  
  

Aglon: [looking more cheerful at last]  
    
This is going to be good.  
  

Apprentice: [same bland tone]  
    
I'm pretty sure, however, that I'm allowed to defend myself if I must.  
  
[with a dangerously-pleasant smile]  
  
I'm willing to chance being wrong and a reprimand.  
  

Captain: [reluctantly to Aredhel]  
    
Highness, I really wouldn't if I were you -- he's not half bad, and you haven't any real combat experience against armed opponents, either.  
  

Aredhel: [whirling on him]  
    
How dare you insult me that way!?  
  

Captain: [raising his eyebrows]  
    
How is a fact an insult?  
  

Aredhel: [outraged]  
    
Ingold! Make your people stop slandering me -- I am not a Kinslayer!  
  

Fourth Guard: [aside to one of his comrades]  
    
How can she say that?  
  

Warrior: [shrugging]  
    
She believes it.  
  

Captain: [with a very askance Look]  
    
I was talking about the giant spiders, Princess. I don't think they've developed tool-using skills, at least. --Though it is interesting that you assumed I was talking about Alqualonde, when actually I was trying to spare you from being badly thrashed.  
  
[the Lord Warden of Aglon gives him a dubious frown at that last statement]  
  

Fourth Guard: [getting louder as he gets more agitated thinking about it]  
    
But how? --Denial about the fighting, or that we're all kin?  
  
[his friend nods]  
  

Warrior:  
    
The latter, I think.  
  

Aredhel: [turning aggrievedly to face the dead High King]  
    
Father! Make them stop it!  
  

Fingolfin: [edged patience]  
    
'Feiniel child, you know I can't do that. I could request that they cease, and your cousin's folk would very likely honour that for their kindness to me, but I cannot bind any spirit here to anything. My kingship here is entirely honorary, and I have no power here whatsoever.  
  

Aredhel: [sullen]  
    
You're the best warrior in the Halls.  
  

Fingolfin: [very stern, approaching angry]  
    
You wish me to fight those who utter only the truth, and punish them for that? Daughter, I am ashamed for you.  
  

Eol:  
    
See, my dear? Not even your own family wants you about. You should have stayed with me, I'm telling you -- again.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
Shut up, Orc-spawn!  
  

Captain: [righteously]  
    
Now I never called him that, but I get in trouble with her for being rude to him.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
You shut up too. --You're nearly as much of a Dark-elf as he is, anyway.  
  

Ambassador: [shaking his head]  
    
It really is a good thing that your father's marchwardens refused to bring her into the Kingdom, I must say, my Princess, given such violence and recklessness of nature -- can you imagine what would happen at a banquet with her in attendance?  
  

Luthien: [trying very hard not to laugh but failing]  
    
That isn't very kind, but you do have a point--  
  

Elenwe: [to Amarie, wonderingly]  
    
I do vow, she hath full so froward a temper as Lord Osse in his ragings.  
  
[Amarie checks, not wanting to agree with the rebel Vanya, but fighting a smile and losing]  
  

Amarie: [shortly]  
    
\--Aye.  
  
[the Noldor princess is half frantic with anger and hurt feelings, beset on all sides and unable to fix on a target to vent her fury upon]  
  

Aredhel:  
    
I hate you all!  
  
[her husband shakes his head pityingly]  
  

Eol:  
    
Haven't you realized yet that I'm the only person in the entire world who's willing to put up with you, my love? Though--  
  
[with a partly-feigned bewilderment]  
  
\--I'm really not sure why I do.  
  

Aredhel: [voice shaking with rage]  
    
Oh, you are truly going to regret that--  
  
[she starts towards him, stalking through the map which curls about her ankles like mist before re-coalescing]  
  

Eol: [unimpressed]  
    
Many, many, many years now, my own, many years--  
  
[as she stomps up to where he is reclining lazily, reaching as if to drag him upright by the gorget of his armour, he sweeps her ankles out from under her with his own foot and jumps up as quickly as she does, recovering, and both of them draw their swords. Before anyone else can interfere, Luthien also springs to her feet, very agitated, and shouts at them:]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Stop it! Stop mauling each other and listen!  
  

Eol: [mock sincerity]  
    
Ah, Melian's daughter is going to bestow some of her vast wisdom and understanding upon us -- my, what have we done to be so blessed?  
  

Luthien: [ignoring his rudeness, passionately]  
    
You could have chosen to be awakened by her to a world so much wider and brighter than Nan Elmoth and your heart.  
  
[to Aredhel]  
  
You could have chosen to learn stillness and contemplation of things you'd thought beneath you, from him, for your part. Both of you could have striven to heal each other's lacks, and been strong where the other was weak or wounded, and grown \-- but instead you stayed where you were, giving nothing, grinding and tearing each other down like the Enemy's minions--  
  

Aredhel: [snarling, starting towards Luthien]  
    
How dare you -- you apologize to me, you barefoot savage, or I'll--  
  
[Luthien raises her hand, palm outward, towards the Noldor lady]  
  

Luthien: [her voice echoing loudly with power]  
    
Hold\--!  
  
[Aredhel is stopped in her tracks -- as Eol moves forward, his kinswoman lifts her other hand and makes him halt as well. As she speaks the following lines in an icy declaration, the memory of her shadowcloak appears around her, the folds stirring like finest silk in a restless draft. They cannot interrupt her, or even look away.]  
  
\--Well-matched indeed are you, who have neither hope nor mercy in your love, but only selfishness and greed.  
  
[to Aredhel]  
  
Lady, rest now from your discontent and have peace, for so long as you will--  
  
[to Eol]  
  
\--And you, kinsman, from the memory of your grievances, in hopes that you may learn grief instead--  
  
[before her upraised hands they vanish, both wearing near-identical expressions of disconcerted astonishment. As she seats herself again her cape disappears once more; her matter-of-fact attitude markedly in contrast to the others around her, particularly the dead, though only two give any audible sign of surprise -- most are simply too shocked to do more than stare, though a few among the ghostly following of House Finarfin look somewhat smug.]  
  

Huan:  
    
[short surprised bark]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Oh!  
  
[wide-eyed, looking at the Captain]  
  
Was that what you meant, when you said 'twould soon be better sport than setting a sudden blaze about her knife?  
  
[he nods once, solemnly]  
  
\--But how did you know that would follow . . .  
  
[she trails off, frowning thoughtfully at the Doriathrin princess; on the other side of the steps the Princes look at each other]  
  

Aegnor: [shocked]  
    
How can she do that?  
  
[his brother only shrugs, as astounded; to their eldest, rather manically:]  
  
Ingold, you can't do that -- why can Luthien?  
  
[Finrod only shrugs in turn; when Aegnor addresses his cousin it is warily and very respectful, now]  
  
Luthien, how did you do that?  
  

Luthien:  
    
That's my power. That's what I do. Dreams and visions and healing, all mixed up together. It's easy, once I figured out how to focus it.  
  
[the Princes look at each other with rather wild expressions and not a little dismay, and are very quiet]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But where did they go?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
I was going to say that.  
  
[Luthien shrugs]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Wherever they wanted to be most. I didn't pry.  
  

Apprentice: [faintly]  
    
That's -- what my Master does, only -- you did it rather differently.  
  
[she raises her hands, deprecating his praise]  
  

Luthien:  
    
That's the only way I know how. It wasn't that hard -- by comparison, at least; the part of them that was crying out for help wasn't very deeply hidden.  
  
[there is still a distinct awe over the gathering, if not unmixed with resentment in some quarters]  
  

Finrod: [wickedly]  
    
Twelve feet tall -- and a battle-aura brighter than his--  
  
[he nods towards his uncle, and Luthien elbows him lightly, trying not to smile]  
  

Fingolfin: [softly, but very earnest, to Luthien]  
    
\--Thank you, your Highness. --Would you be so good as to continue in your reminiscences, if it please you?  
  
[she nods, pausing to reflect a moment]  
  

Nerdanel: [managing a dry, if somewhat brittle, humour despite all]  
    
Nay, belike thou'lt have thee something less of interruptions, hereafter.  
  

Luthien: [straight-faced innocence]  
    
\--Probably.  


  



	68. Scene V.xvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.xvi

  
  
    
[Elsewhere - the Corollaire]  
  
[Beren is still sitting in silence, now with his chin on his knees, looking out towards the Pass of Light, while Yavanna frowns at him with a concerned expression as she sets the rodent down to go about its rodenty life:]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Are you being quiet because you're overwhelmed, or because you're focusing on everything around and trying to take it all in?  
  

Beren: [confused]  
    
Can't you tell?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
I can tell which of the many possibilities are most likely, but not which it is. Knowing you, either one is a reasonable guess.  
  

Beren: [thinking about it]  
    
Yeah. --A little of both,  
I guess.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
So, are you happier now?  
  
[he gives her a puzzled frown]  
  
Now that someone's recognized your efforts and told you "Good job" at last--?  
  

Beren: [looking down]  
    
Oh.  
  
[he appears embarrassed]  
  
I -- Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Mostly I'm just--  
  
[checks, frowning]  
  
\--actually, I'm not.  
  
[he looks at her with a bit of surprise]  
  
I was going to say "tired,"  
  
but that isn't true. --Still confused, though. A lot.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
About what?  
  

Beren:  
    
Everything.  
  

Yavanna:   
    
Well, no wonder, since Everything is beyond the ability of any of us to sort out. But then you've always been the ambitous sort.  
  
[out of nowhere she takes a shining garnetlike fruit, somewhat like an all-red nectarine, and looks at him inquiringly]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Want some?  
  

Beren:  
    
Uh -- can I?  
  

Yavanna: [matter-of-factly]  
    
No, I'm inviting you so that I can contrarily refuse to oblige, afterwards. --What do you think?  
  

Beren: [sighing]  
    
That that was a dumb question.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Very.  
  
[she twists the fruit in half and gives him one side -- as he is looking at it in fascination:]  
  
\--Don't you dare ask me if that's real or not.  
  

Beren: [almost managing to keep a straight face]  
    
I wouldn't have dreamed of it, my Lady.  
  
[she gives him a narrow Look]  
  
Thought of it, sure -- but I wouldn't dare ask.  
  
[she gives him a friendly swat on the arm]  
  
It's beautiful. And tastes just as wonderful as it smells.  
  

Yavanna: [smugly]  
    
The jewels of my making are much more than just pretty to look at.  
  

Beren: [aside]  
    
I'm not even going to go near that one.  
  
[the Lady gives him a raised eyebrow]  
  
Family fights, bad enough -- between immortals? --Already done that.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Hmph. Most of the time you're a prudent soul.  
  

Beren: [between mouthfuls]  
    
So -- your sister's Spring, right?  
  
[she nods, though her expression is a bit wry; he frowns as he wipes the juice from his fingers onto the hem of his outer tunic]  
  
You just have the one, right?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
That, too, is a bit -- dependent on your definition. Why? Did you meet her?  
  

Beren:  
    
Well, if she's the Spring, then I did.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
She is as much the beginning of all growth as I am Autumn. And our sister by love, Nessa, the high Summer of blooming roses and the swift young animals in their pride. But we are both -- all of us -- far more than any of our tasks. As are you, my Hunter.  
  
[he shakes his head a little, distracted, half-smiling]  
  

Beren:  
    
Is she -- just a little bit -- well, crazy?  
  

Yavanna: [suddenly stern and daunting]  
    
Did she harm you in any way?  
  

Beren: [quickly]  
    
No -- not at all. The opposite. She--  
  
[he chuckles again]  
  
She was kind of cute, really. In a completely terrifying way. I--  
  
[looking at Yavanna with a very confused expression]  
  
I was going to say she reminded me of Tinuviel before things fell apart, but--  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
\--it's the other way around, only -- I never met her before, so -- how--  
  
[the Power sets her hand calmingly but very firmly on his shoulder]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Was there ever a year of your life when the snows did not melt and the crocus and pheasants-eye bloom? When all beasts wild or tame, however old, did not leap like fawns in the new light? When the bees did not crawl out of their hollows and the little brown bats, and the swallows return from the southlands, all to dance upon the warming airs? --Then how should you not recognize the Ever-young, when met in the person of your own true love?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
But -- Tinuviel's Tinuviel, right? She's not -- not really Vana, too, is she? I mean -- she's herself…?  
  

Yavanna: [reassuring]  
    
\--Always. As you are yourself, my Champion.  
  
[she strokes the hair from his brow gently]  
  

Beren: [puzzled]  
    
How come you call me that?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Because it is true.  


  



	69. Scene V.xvii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xvii**

  
  
  
    
[the Hall]  
  
[Finrod and his people are looking at Luthien with rather aghast looks; Fingolfin is carefully looking elsewhere]  
  

Finrod:  
    
You are joking, right?  
  
[she shakes her head]  
  
\--Telumnar?  
  
[she nods]  
  

Steward:  
    
Perhaps you heard the name wrong, my Lady?  
  

Luthien: [shaking her head again]  
    
Not unless he doesn't know how to pronounce it himself.  
  

Finrod:    
  
    
But--  
  
[he and the rest glance in utter bemusement at the Captain]  
  
Are you sure it wasn't a -- a jest at your expense?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Orodreth wasn't doing much joking in those days.  
  

Finrod:  
    
But -- Telumnar!?  
  

Captain: [serious]  
    
Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding, gentles. Are you quite sure that her Highness is speaking of the same individual?  
  

Steward: [aside]  
    
How many arrant fools by the name of Telumnar do we know? --How many are there, after all?  
  

Captain:  
    
She didn't say he was being an idiot, though -- my Lady, do you recollect well the Elf in question? He wasn't by any chance a thin-browed chap with an annoying habit of smirking knowingly at everything you said, as if he knew more than you but couldn't trouble himself to correct you?  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
I only met him once or twice at state dinners -- and I think he was at that party of Finduilas', now that I think back on it. Pretty much everyone was acting patronizing and knowing around me, anyway. Sorry.  
  

Ranger:  
    
Your Highness, did he tend to try to keep his profile at a five-sevenths angle to display his best side at all times, when he was talking to you?  
  
[several of the Ten snicker -- and Angrod works very hard at keeping a straight face; Luthien frowns]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Now that you mention it, he did seem to be striking poses most of the time. I thought he was favoring an injury, at first.  
  
[even Aegnor chuckles at that, though the mood quickly turns serious again]  
  

Nerdanel:  
    
Might safely to presume, then, the youngling did learn but little, else naught, for all his long travel eke travail?  
  

Finrod:  
    
You might indeed.  
  
[to Fingolfin]  
  
All right, I've been wanting to ask you this for over a yen, now -- and now you have to tell me the truth, uncle. Did you foist that fellow off on me because you were afraid you'd have a rebellion all of your own if you didn't get him out of your own chain of command?  
  
[everyone looks expectantly at the High King's shade. Long silence.]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
I--  
  
[grimacing, glaring in a mock-ferocious way at his nephew]  
  
I also had some hope, that your company and that of your companions would provide him with exemplar and inspiration to improve. --Though, 'tis true, I had come to fear him incorrigible by that time--  
  

Aegnor: [to Angrod]  
    
Hah! Pay up; I told you so.   
  
[their uncle turns the glare on them]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
\--and so I judged that your greater wisdom, young Ingold, should find the best way to set him where he might work the least damage.  
  

Elenwe: [admiring]  
    
Tis deftly done, is't not?  
  

Amarie: [harsh]  
    
\--What, pray?  
  

Elenwe:  
    
How my lord his father doth turn aside wrath with subtle guile, for his words they hold them brimful of praises, to make sweet wrath's bitterness -- yet eke mockery, yet nor so venomous that shall aught but sting, as salt water's smart, that doth cut when flattery doth 'gin to cloy.  
  
[to Finrod]  
\-- For none other, I vouchsafe, save thee. Yon thornbrake snares of Noldorin subtlety be most unpleasing to my soul, do I win through and smite upon's conscience else turn back in weariest disarray, for defense cometh most naturally unto him.  
  
[Fingolfin looks mortified at this public deconstruction of his rhetoric; his brother and sister-in-law appear both interested and embarrassed for him. To the living Vanya:]  
  
Thy lord, my cousin  
yet warm --aye, and dauntless -- doth far surpass all others in such disport.  
  

Amarie: [coldly]  
    
That, I did mark well.  
  

Ambassador: [to Elenwe]  
    
My lady, do you not find this -- unguarded openness, of our present state distressing?  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Nay; how so?  
  
[he is nonplused by her tone and expression of childlike seriousness, & doesn't know what to say; she continues:]  
  
'Tis but the way this world is, e'en as without the rains do fall betimes, nor more sensible to feel distress upon it, than at dew's damp, or droplets' splash -- dost such trouble one, had best make no journeying, lest find thyself unexpected wet.  
  

Finrod: [rueful, to the Doriathrin Lord]  
    
My Vanyar kin have a rather -- different -- approach to life than even we Teler -- much simpler and far more direct. And much less concerned with appearances and public dignity than we Noldor. It can be -- disconcerting, even in life.  
  

Ambassador: [looking thoughtfully at him in turn]  
    
Indeed, I think I have seen such truths as you speak before this time, displayed in Menegroth, your Majesty.  
  
[it is Finrod's turn to be slightly embarrassed]  
  

Elenwe: [musing]  
    
Though in truth I ne'er did think to see yon solid floor of many fathoms riven o'er wave as 'twere but crumbled bread into wine.  
  
[Fingolfin winces]  
  

Fingolfin:  
    
Daughter, daughter, have mercy -- I rue thy losses, and I obey thy bidding now.  
  

Nerdanel: [wryly]  
    
Thou dost not so ill at it thyself, good my niece.  
  
[the Vanyar shade only shrugs]  
  

Elenwe:  
    
Long dwelt I amongst thy folk in Tirion to learn't.  
  

Teler Maid  
    
This Telumnar, he is a great fool, I dare to say? For I cannot place him in memory.  
  

Steward: [bleak]  
    
Much worse than that. He is one that will never admit he has erred, in any wise. He but changes the matter of his speech, when 'tis shown to him.  
  

Apprentice: [aside]  
    
Another one! I do hope my Master has judged me complete of patience before he comes along.  
  
[this gets him some rather askance Looks from the presently-dead]  
  

First Guard: [to the Captain]  
    
I still can't believe the Prince gave him your job.  
  
[the senior officer only shakes his head, looking bemused and dismayed at the idea]  
  

Luthien: [correcting]  
    
Not being in charge of your spies -- that went to Gwin, I'm pretty sure. He and Orodreth were closeted a lot, and there were other hints--  
  
[breaking off]  
  
What? Did I say something wrong?  
  
[Finrod and his chief lords are exchanging looks of rueful humour]  
  

Captain:  
    
I ought to ask how you knew about that, Lady Luthien -- but I'm rather afraid of the answer. It's going to be more mystical demigod perception, isn't it--  
  
[she is shaking her head]  
  

Luthien  
    
I heard about it from Dad--  
  
[he looks relieved at her words]  
  
\--after Mom told him.  
  

Captain:  
    
Ah. Right.  
  

Luthien:  
    
But I honestly don't know if she figured it out from watching all you interact, or if she just knew. We were all just used to her knowing everything. It came up once when Galadriel was pushing Mom a bit about how to run a kingdom, and she told her that it depended on being someone worthy of following, so that your followers would be worthy of your trust -- and then told her to follow her oldest brother's example. Dad said something about how important it was to have people you could rely on to both hear and speak for you, to be your senses where you couldn't be yourself, and your voice--  
  
[looking from him to the Steward and back again]  
  
\--and Galadriel challenged him if he knew which of you was which, and Mom said obviously, both, it just depended.  
  
[quickly reassuring]  
  
This was a private family discussion, it wasn't as though everyone in Doriath knew you were more than just military.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Why do people keep underestimating you, cousin?  
  

Captain: [speaking as if to reassure himself]  
    
Gwindor's a good lad -- heart in the right place, if still a little wet behind the ears.  
  

Finrod: [mild]  
    
He isn't all that much younger than we are, you know.  
  
[pause]  
  

Captain:  
    
I suppose he isn't, at that. The next generation just seem so much more uncertain of themselves than we were. --Not really surprising, given the hash we made of everything, I suppose--   
  

Aegnor: [cutting]  
    
Speak for yourself.  
  
[Angrod elbows him hard]  
  

Huan:  
    
[low prolonged growl]  
  
[the Captain stops talking and stares straight ahead; his former colleague leans around and turns her fiercest glare on Finrod's brothers]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
My lord, I tell you, I shall most assuredly make report of your unmannerliness to Lady Earwen, when I am alive once again, and let her for to know of every least rude word I did hear of you!  
  
[Aegnor looks suddenly daunted at this, though he does not apologize or meet her angry gaze]  
  

Apprentice: [tolerant]  
    
Well, as a matter of fact, Maiwe, that isn't going to be possible. Once you're rehoused, the memory of this place will fade very quickly.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I shall manage it, nonetheless, let you wait, and I vow you shall see!  
  

Apprentice:  
    
But--  
  

Luthien: [raising her voice a little, cutting them off]  
    
\--In any case, I am certain no one here has done anything approaching the level of stupidity of sending my father a letter announcing that his nephew had been done away with and his daughter about to be wed to a multiple murderer, and advising him not to object if he knew what was good for him.  
  

Steward:  
    
Oh, yes, that\--  
  
[he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief, Finrod leans forward and gives him a puzzled look]  
  

Finrod:  
    
What?  
  

Third Guard:  
    
Beren told us, Sir -- oh, that's right, you weren't here then. It was--  
  

Finrod: [flatly]  
    
\--Let me guess. Curufin.  
  

Luthien:  
    
Writing for the both of them. It's funny, because you'd think that would have made them even angrier at me, for having got myself into such a situation, but instead Dad was so furious with House Feanor that he actually started thinking a little better of Beren--  
  
[to her compatriot]  
  
\--isn't that right?  
  

Ambassador: [nods]  
    
Albeit--  
  
[he checks, then goes on with some reluctance at her Look]  
  
That was in part -- in part, not all -- attributable to the fact of the Lord of Dorthonion's mortality, and your consequent eventual freedom from any such bad match.  
  
[he flinches under her glare, but this looking-away brings him into contact with Nerdanel]  
  
I do apologize, my lady.  
  
[she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, unable or unwilling to speak just then]  
  

Luthien:  
    
Anyhow, he decided he was going to solve the problem at least partially, by sending Celegorm West, and rescuing me, so that I wouldn't ever have to see him again. That got another fight going between him and Mom, over the morality of offensive warfare and the problem that killing Kinslayers makes you one just as much yourself, but he went ahead and got an invasion force together without her approval.  
  
[Finrod and his followers look at each other, completely horrified]  
  

Warrior: [stricken]  
    
The Greycloak invaded Nargothrond?  
  

Fourth Guard:  
    
Don't be silly -- we'd have heard about it firsthand before now.  
  
[but he still looks shaken too]  
  

Luthien: [grim pleasure]  
    
I'm glad somebody takes the possibility seriously.  
  

Finrod: [frowning]  
    
They really didn't think -- what, that your father would react with devastating decisiveness upon receiving such a missive, or that he would be capable of carrying out such attempt?  
  
[Luthien raises her hands helplessly]  
  

Luthien:  
    
I don't know. Both, I guess.  
  
[sighing]  
  
It worked out strangely enough, because just as they were getting ready to go -- Dad and Mablung and Beleg and all our warriors -- they got word of another Enemy incursion along the frontier, and went to deal with that instead, and then by the time that was done with, Huan and I were already long gone from Nargothrond, and then after he found that out he decided it was useless to try to hunt me down again, after the first time had gone so poorly, and to try for a diplomatic appeal to Lord Maedhros against his younger siblings, who after all are nominally under his authority and were moving back in with him.  
  
[she looks over at the Ambassador, rather sadly]  
  
\--Of course, I wasn't there for any of this, and only heard about it after the fact, so if I'm getting any of it wrong, you ought to correct me.  
  
[he shakes his head, his expression somber.]  
  

Captain:  
    
Your Highness, how did King Elu discover that you'd flown again?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Beleg sneaked in and listened to the gossip about it all.  
  
[the Captain puts his head down on his knees with a groan]  
  

Ranger: [earnestly]  
    
Sir, this is Cuthalion we're talking about, not some random stranger.  
  

Finrod: [same tone]  
    
Nor would he have tripped the wardings, not being a minion of the Dark Lord.  
  

Teler Maid: [to the Captain, concerned]  
    
What troubles you?  
  
[he only shakes his head, not looking up]  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Aye, wherefore this ado of thine?  
  

Captain: [muffled]  
    
Professional humiliation.  
  
[looking up, grimacing]  
  
My people let an intruder just traipse through the Guarded Plain and glean all the private business of the City from their conversing, and then leave, without ever so much as noticing a blade of grass out of place throughout. I trained them better than that -- I thought. And with Captain Telumnar in charge of defenses, everything falls apart in a matter of months! It doesn't sound like Lord Gwindor was getting any better cooperation, either.  
  

Steward: [quietly]  
    
You're forgetting another factor, as you judge them -- and yourself -- too harshly.  
  

Captain: [scornful]  
    
What?  
  

Steward:  
    
Sorrow. You cannot justly expect them to be as keen and alert as otherwise, when most assuredly the same grief, dismay, uncertainty and guilt afflicted them as ruled in the City proper, as we have heard recounted, soon and late, by our shadowy and sometimes guest. They had not you, and that shall have been no light matter, with all the rest of it.  
  

Captain:  
    
Then--  
  
[checks, with a bitter expression]  
  
No. I can't say that. Though I think they chose wrong, if then they had stayed faithful it's not unlikely they would have partook of our doom, too, and--  
  
[he looks across where the Youngest Ranger is dreaming by the water, and then at his Noldor follower and the rest of the Ten, grimly]  
  
\--I couldn't have borne more, and yet I still think their misery both just and insufficient, and I can't sort it out in my own heart, and I'd like to scruff them and shake them all until their eyes rattle for being idiots, the more stupidity I hear about.  
  
[Finrod gives him a very understanding Look, nodding in agreement; Angrod stares pointedly at his nearest sibling, who stares obstinately into the distance.]  
  

Apprentice: [reasonable]  
    
But you can't do anything to affect what happens there now.  
  

Captain: [bleak]  
    
I know. --I know. [he rests his forehead on his arms, closing his eyes]  
  

Huan:  
    
[thin whine]  
  
[the Hound licks the side of his face without getting any response. The Elf of Alqualonde regards her friend with a concerned expression.]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Your City was your ship, your waverunner, for you.  
  
[he nods without looking up]  
  
Then no words--  
  
[she gives the disguised Maia a Look]  
  
\--shall e'er truly serve to take the hurt of the loss of your Work from you. [she rests her hand on his bowed head and then on his nearer hand, oblivious to the impressed surprise shared by the Ten and Nienna's student who have been witness to her self-centered neediness, at this her first gesture of outreach to another. The Captain straightens and grips her fingers before making a sweeping gesture of dismissal which also conveys a distinct element of relinquishment.]  
  

Captain: [sighing]  
    
The fate of Nargothrond -- so far as it ever was -- is out of my hands now. I know that. The regret -- that doesn't end.  
  
[he leans back against the Lord of Dogs, his expression resigned but sad, indifferent to the varied looks of concern, understanding, or displeasure directed his way]  
  

Finrod: [neutral]  
    
I'm sure Orodreth will have figured it out by now and appointed someone more competent and less convinced of it, and found Telumnar an appointment with a grander-sounding title and no leverage to go with it.   
  
[aside, seething:]  
Invading. My City. --Those bloody fools!  
  

First Guard: [frowning, to his companions]  
    
I'm surprised Beren mentioned nothing of this when he talked about the letter.  
  

Luthien: [carefully]  
    
Beren -- was a little preoccupied in Menegroth, then, and I'm not sure how much of an impression it made on him at that point, particularly since it hadn't happened. There were other aspects of that episode which affected him more, unfortunately--  
  
[a touch sarcastic]  
  
\--such as the fact that we'd missed a detachment of Enemy fighters by only a few -- score \-- leagues of rough terrain and I'd not known about it at all.  
  
[addressing Nerdanel, who has given up even pretending to draw]  
  
At least Celegorm was genuinely motivated -- at least in part -- by a desire to keep me safe in comfort and civilization, as he saw it--  
  
[aside]  
  
\--at least at that point.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
For my part, that none of mine own folk e'er did aid thee, nor aught but suffer thee to stay benighted and imprisoned meanwhiles, the while they did indulge upon false gaiety, doth trouble my heart full measure with all the rest of't.  
  

Fingolfin: [indignant]  
    
Indeed, it amazes me beyond words' power to describe, that among all our kindred there, not one had conscience nor courage to speak truth and stand beside you in this, Highness. Even in House Feanor's entourage, there should have been more than a few who did not lack the clarity of thought and strength of will to hold firm against wrongdoing!  
  
[the Feanorian shade darts a quick, nervous glance at the dead High King]  
  

Luthien: [with a fatalistic shrug]  
    
They weren't very happy about it ultimately either. A lot of Curufin's picked guards took to hiding where I couldn't see them from the door when it was their turn to guard me, after I took to haranguing them about their guest-duty and familial obligations.  
  
[narrowing her brows]  
  
The bit they hated the most, besides my songs, was the riddle Beren taught me, that one about the cuckoo.  
  
[Aegnor and Angrod exchange silent Looks]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
What is a -- a cuckoo?  
  

Captain:  
    
It's what we call a bell-bird, here.  
  
[half to himself]  
  
They wouldn't like  
that, would they . . .  
  

Ambassador:  
    
How does it go, this mortal wit, my Princess?  
  
[she lifts her head defiantly, though he was not being sarcastic just then]  
  

Luthien:  
    
\--Myself in that day was given up for dead,   
fatherless, motherless. I had no life then,   
no friend nor elder to turn to. Then came another.   
She guarded me well, giving me garments   
and strong protection, held me and cherished   
as dearly as her own. Even so in her shelter   
I soon grew high-hearted among strangers,   
striving ever as my spirit must, though but a guest.   
Yet still she sheltered me, until I grew stronger   
to set my sights wider. She suffered the loss   
of her own sons and daughters for that deed.  
  
[there are mixed reactions -- those of Aman do not understand all the connotations, while those hailing from Beleriand get it, but the Ten look more vindictively pleased, while Finrod's kinsmen angry-grim, and the Warden of Aglon insulted and resentful]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
How means yon riddle a bell-bird?  
  

Captain:  
    
In the woods back home, the cuckoos lay their eggs in the nests of unsuspecting thrushes and warblers when the parents are foraging, and then go off, leaving their nestlings to hatch and be reared by the other birds.  
  

Teler Maid: [outraged]  
    
Why, that is most unfair, and cheating, indeed!  
  
[the Feanorian lord sneers at her naivete]  
  

Captain:  
    
Gets worse -- they're not content to skive off the parents and take some of the other chicks' share, they go further and fling out the real young ones, so that they can get all the food and care for themselves. Then after they've destroyed their hosts' family, they fly off and do the same thing themselves to some other victim.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
That's disgusting. [pause]  
  
And it does fit, in a peculiar sort of way.  
  
[Finarfin takes his sister-in-law's hand in a gesture intended to comfort, if not effective]  
  

Luthien: [forlorn]  
    
Yes, but it didn't work.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Not the way you intended, but certainly it had some influence after, or else our cousins would still be in power there. Probably in authority, too, if not legitimate, since it sounds as though they had designs against Orodreth, if Celegorm was talking about making himself King over all southern Beleriand. Undoubtedly your exhortations were very much in everyone's hearts when the counter-coup took place.  
  

Luthien: [unhappily]  
    
But is that really a good thing? What with you being dead, mightn't it be more practical to have a strong leadership, at least, regardless of the justice of it, simply for the common good? Because of the War?  
  
[a distinct chill settles upon all present, except Finrod himself, who reaches out and takes firm hold of both her hands]  
  

Finrod:  
    
A King and his Steward who didn't know enough not to antagonize -- further -- their largest and longest-ruling neighbor, whose support covers a broad ethnic base and whose territorial integrity alone has not been compromised during the recent defeats? To put it bluntly -- and insulting nobody present -- Celegorm has less political awareness, I'm afraid, than does Lord Huan, who hasn't any obligations of diplomacy nor would any reasonably expect him, as pack leader, to have. Close contact with those our cousins over an extended time made it increasingly clear to me why Maedhros chose to sequester them prudently a long ways from civilized society, where they weren't likely to antagonize any other Elves outside their own followings.  
  
[his siblings bridle at this, but check when they see he is teasing them, with a slight twinkle in his expression as he gives them a sidelong Look]  
  

Aegnor: [very gruff]  
    
It isn't funny.  
  

Finrod:  
    
Parts of it are, nonetheless.  
  
[turning back to Luthien]  
  
\--Had our kinsmen remained in charge, your father would have invaded Nargothrond, would he not?  
  
[Luthien nods grimly]  
  
And that wouldn't have been a good thing.  
  

Luthien: [almost whispering]  
    
No.  
  
[the Sea-elf has been frowning to herself in concentration, and finally speaks out again]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Why make your bell-birds yonder such fell murder, when they need not kill to feed themselves, where 'tis fodder free-growing for all the birds of the wood?  
  

Finrod:  
    
It's the Marring, Sea-Mew. Everything fights itself to some extent, in Middle-earth, needful or not. And they'd rather not work for what they need, when others will do it for them.  
  

Teler Maid: [wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning her chin on them]  
    
Like our ships.  
  
[simultaneous]  

Finarfin:  
    
Amarie: [very sadly]  
    
Aye.  
  

Finrod: [lecturing]  
    
Luthien, none of this is your fault. No more than it's Beren's -- you happened to wander into the way of our Doom, just as he did, and you're no more to be blamed for what followed on that than you are for falling in love in the first place. You wouldn't blame the Sea-Mew here, any more than your uncle my grandfather, for the fact that those vessels were coveted and appropriated by our cousins? The uncoerced behaviour of other persons in or out of Nargothrond is not attributable to your own.  
  

Luthien:  
    
I know that. But--  
  
[taut]  
\--I heard a great deal of the opposite of that, in and out of Nargothrond.  
  
[heavy silence]  
  

Soldier: [somewhat shyly]  
    
My Lady--  
  
[as she turns to look directly at him he loses his hesitancy]  
  
\--could you perchance tell us of our own kin and other friends we left behind back home?  
  

Luthien:  
    
Of course--  
  
[checks]  
  
I mean -- as best I can -- but I'm afraid it might not be very well at all. I -- met some of your nearest there, more than I know, probably, but -- they didn't all identify themselves as such, and those who did--  
  
[getting quieter and more unhappy]  
  
\--tended to blame all of you as much as they did us.  
  
[the Apprentice straightens where he is sitting, watching with a somewhat detached interest, as might be expected of a friendly onlooker at a family reunion, and his expression grows graver]  
  

Soldier: [shaking his head]  
    
I wouldn't expect any different, given what I left to, and the same for nigh us all, I think--  
  
[his friends also nod, their expressions bittersweet as his]  
  
\--but still it's home, and hearth, and memory of better days, better than naught--  
  
[Luthien nods in answer, reaching out her hands towards the Ten]  
  

Luthien: [a little choked up]  
    
Give me their names and manners, and I'll do my best to give report of them--  
  

Apprentice: [in a worried, responsible tone]  
    
I don't think that's really a good idea.  
  
[she turns sharply to gaze at him]  
  

Luthien: [short]  
    
Why not?  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Well -- because -- you're supposed to be leaving the conflicts of the past behind here. It's--  
  

Luthien: [cutting him off]  
    
Isn't it about healing?  
  

Apprentice: [defensive, responsible, and increasingly harried]  
    
Yes and reopening old wounds and resentments won't assist that, now will it?  
  

Luthien:  
    
But--  
  

Finrod: [talking right over her]  
    
I don't see anyone putting a stop to our asking -- or even giving stringent warnings against it.  
  

Apprentice:  
    
Yes, but--  
  

Finrod: [going on regardless]  
    
In fact, I've never heard of anyone being forbidden to send their dead relatives messages -- even if they don't often get answered -- so by extension it doesn't seem as though there'd be any problem with us asking after our living ones--  
  

Apprentice:  
    
\--there's no one else here to--  
  

Finrod: [still talking over him]  
    
\-- as much as we want. No one told me I couldn't send an apology to my lady, after all -- except for her, that is--  
  
[Amarie clenches fists and teeth on a retort]  
  

Angrod:  
    
No, it's just you, you get exceptions made for you all the time--  
  

Finrod:  
    
No. I merely do things nobody else does, and then the Powers that are here have to come up with some way to deal with them. --You should try it some time.  
  

Luthien: [slightly manic tone and expression]  
    
I am.  
  

Fingolfin: [pained exasperation]  
    
Might we please leave the rest of our family out of this?  
  
[his nephews don't notice]  
  

Aegnor:  
    
And actually that isn't true, because people who don't stop pestering their dead relations are told off to give them peace and quiet to decide in, and stop hounding them with pleas meanwhile.  
  

Fingolfin: [grimly]  
    
Aegnor--  
  

Finrod:  
    
But that's only temporary--  
  

Fingolfin: [raising his voice loudly for the first time]  
    
\--Grinding Ice!! Will you boys leave your grandfather's memory in peace?!  
  
[silence]  
  

Finrod:  
    
Sorry, Father -- Uncle -- Aunt 'Danel.  
  

Angrod:  
    
\--Sorry.  
  
[Aegnor bows his head in stiff apology, while their elders share Looks of mild exasperation]  
  

Fingolfin: [offhand]  
    
You see, my brother, they're not irreverent because they are dead, but because death of itself suffices not to diminish overconfidence, unmindfulness, obstinacy, pride, or--  
  
[glancing from his nephews to pass with a slow cool gaze over their followers]  
  
\--a twisted sense of what is deemed humorous.  
  

Captain: [innocent]  
    
I beg your pardon, Sire, but surely you're not referring to any of the present company?  
  

Aegnor: [aside, exasperated]  
    
Is there no end to your stupid jokes?  
  

Fingolfin: [equally wickedly bland]  
    
But of course not, friends.  
  
[the Apprentice shakes his head helplessly, and settles down again leaning his chin on his hand as he gives up trying to excercise any control -- while behind him the orb of the palantir flashes again, quite unnoticed.]   



	70. Scene V.xviii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.xviii

  
  
[Elsewhere: the Corollaire]  
  

Beren:  
    
At the risk of sounding awful sorry for myself -- I've gotta say you must be pretty disappointed in me. And hard up for Servants.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Why would you think so?  
  

Beren: [staring out over the plain]  
    
Because it didn't matter in the end. You try, and you try, and you do the best you can -- and some bastard comes along and smashes down everything that you built up over the years, and you fight him off and put it back together again, and it just happens all over again, and you can't defend it all, and each time there's less to fix, and whatever you manage to save means that there's something else that you're not protecting, and eventually there's nothing left because it's so much faster to burn things down than to build them. And nothing can grow when everything's being burned and trampled and no one's there to look after things. And finally you have to go, and whever you did is lost and ruined.  
  
[he is struggling to keep from breaking down, his voice unsteady as he finishes]  
  

Yavanna: [a bit sniffly, but proud-sounding]  
    
Yes. Yes, that's it exactly. I knew you'd understand.  
  
[he gives her a strange Look]  
  
It doesn't stop hurting even after thousands of years.  
  

Beren: [surprised]  
    
I was talking about -- myself. About us.  
  
[smaller voice]  
And you. --Not just you. --Ma'am.  
  
[she looks intensely into his eyes, until his embarrassment and self-consciousness fade leaving behind only the earnest effort to understand]  
  
I never realized -- that you saw us that way. It seems -- like we'd be, be just too small for you -- for you to notice.  
  
[wordlessly she closes her hand and then opens it, like a conjurer doing a trick, with something tiny -- a pebble perhaps, lying in the middle of her palm. As he frowns at it, she folds her fingers shut and then opens them again -- and something bright, like a dragonfly-sized metallic green-and-gold bumblebee buzzes forth, remaining in a kind of orbit around her -- Beren stares, amazed, trying to figure out what it is, while the Earthqueen smiles, and beckons it closer, until it settles on her forefinger, briefly at rest. Recognizing the avian nature of it, he gasps in amazement, and the hummingbird takes flight again, attracted to the flowers now rising high over the grass where Vana left them.]  
  

Beren:  
    
That -- is that real?  
  
[laughs at himself, shaking his head]  
  
What is it? I guess it must be one of those creatures that there's only Quenya names for because they don't exist back home. --But that one -- was it real, or did you just make it to show me that? And the vole, only they don't usually have ears like that -- I mean, are they just going to disappear when you stop thinking about them? Or are they real like me, at least?  
  

Yavanna: [amused]  
    
You're worried about little animals that might be imaginary. Do you still wonder why you're my Champion?  
  
[reassuringly]  
  
Even hummingbirds dream, though they don't rest much.  
  

Beren:  
    
So when a -- hummingbird -- dreams, it dreams about you.  
  

Yavanna: [shrugging]  
    
About being a hummingbird. I simply called it over. Very few people pay much attention to us, you know. Even here. Quite properly -- this isn't for us, after all.  
  
[as he still looks confused]  
  
The Song. Arda. It's for all of you.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh. Okay, I see. --Are their eggs really the size of small beans?  
  
[she nods]  
  
That's hard to believe. All right, I get that if you care about a bird that's not much bigger than a big bug, then it's not impossible for you to know about or care about any of us, but that just leaves me even more confused.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
And you're quite correct. There's too much of Ea for any one of us to attend to every aspect of all parts of it. That's why it goes without requiring interference, mostly -- why we made it that way. You don't think that I have to come and pollinate every seed and ripen every grain and berry by hand, do you? As if there's enough time for that! We're much better artists than that. Things look after themselves, except when Melkor breaks them.  
  

Beren: [noncommitally]   
    
That seems to happen a lot, though.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
That's why we specialize. If I were to allow myself to get as upset about everything of mine that's been wrecked -- let alone everyone else's Work -- as they deserved, I wouldn't be able to function. None of us could. And that would be very bad for the world.  
  

Beren:  
    
I thought you didn't do everything yourself, though.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
You were never lord in your own hall, with your lady at your side -- but your experience and wits should still suffice to tell you, what happens when those who order the moving of others cease to attend.  
  
[after a second he looks down, nodding]  
  

Beren:  
    
Yeah. It can't go on very long. After -- after my aunt died, my folks did what needed to be done but if my uncle hadn't pulled himself out of it, he wouldn't really have been Beor any more, even if we still would've called him that out of politeness. 'Cause somebody had to make decisions and get stuff done.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
But your parents did not do all those tasks themselves, surely?  
  

Beren:  
    
No. They just had to -- be there, mostly, so people could know that everything was okay enough for them to do their own work and not worry about -- well, everything. They had to do it while my uncle was in mourning and being with my cousins, because he couldn't focus on anything else then.  
  
[pause -- he looks at her very seriously, working his way through it:]  
  
That's -- that's Her job, isn't it? Because somebody has to. Because the world deserves it. Because -- we deserve it.  
  
[she nods]  
  
But the day's work still has to be done and somebody has to make sure there's enough food in the barns and the cellars for winter. Somebody has to greet travelers and make the little ones toys and teach them stories even if you feel like it doesn't matter if the sun comes up ever again. It has to keep going.  
  

Yavanna: [meaningfully]  
    
You do understand.  
  

Beren: [wistful]  
    
Is -- Is it true it would destroy Beleriand, for you all to go there and fight Morgoth up in the far North even? I mean -- I'm not trying to say they were lying to me, but -- are you sure they're not wrong? Maybe?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
You do know that the mountains of your birthplace were made in the course of the last war? I mean really know, not just one more strange thing that you've heard the Eldar say that sort of skates past your self's awareness the way a leaf might drift past you in a stream, there and then gone from your mind the next moment?  
  

Beren:  
    
Um…yeah…  
  
[giving her a sidelong Look]  
How?  
  
[she shrugs]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Unfortunately that part of the earth isn't my field, if you'll excuse the joke -- such a curious thing, using words as toys, I still don't understand how the Eldar came up with it -- but my husband's, and when he starts talking about subduction and transverse faults and so on my mind starts glazing over. The best way I can explain it is that mountains have to come from somewhere, and something has to go in where they used to be; you can't just have nothing, not within the World. Look--  
  
[she spreads out the hem of her skirt in front of her and manifests a handful of fine sand, sprinkling it over the fabric so that it fills up between where the grass makes rises in the cloth]  
  
This is water. It goes wherever the ground is lowest, you know that.  
  

Beren:  
    
Because it's always trying to get back to its home.  
  
[she nods. Sprinkling a handful of small flower petals in between, covering the rest of the cloth]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
This is everything else. Now--  
  
[she pinches up part of the hem]  
  
\--this is what happens when you lift up a mountain in the middle of it. Sort of.  
  
[as she pulls the tented cloth higher, all the sand and organic matter pours together and starts running into the grass]  
  
Aule would laugh at me and tell you this was all wrong, and then go into an explanation that would leave you thinking that the earth was really made out of numbers instead, but as analogies go, it's pretty accurate really. You have to imagine that it's happening in fits and starts and that the fabric of the crust is more brittle in places and so it rips and the hot melted parts that keep everything going are coming out through the holes.  
  
[he points to a place where some of the biomass has caught in a fold]  
  

Beren: [very quietly]   
    
There's still a little bit left.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
How is it doing?  
  
[pause]  
  
It looks all mixed together to me.  
  
[Beren doesn't say anything]  
  
Something would survive. It did the first time, and last time as well. But the ocean will move in where the ground pushes in--  
  
[she presses down the edge of her skirt into the grass, which dips over the hem as the remaining sand spills off]  
  
\--and the fires which come up will burn what is near them, and that will cause storms much worse than the seasonal ones--  
  
[she blows at the flower petals, which drift away]  
  
\--and what was done to Dorthonion in the course of trying to chivy you out will seem like nothing by comparison.  
  
[pause]  
  
Do you really want that to happen to Middle-earth? Even if it does come as the price of Melkor's defeat?  
  
[he shakes his head, not looking up. She smooths his hair and rubs his back in a consoling gesture]  
  
\--Neither do I.  


  



	71. Scene V.xix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  
**

* * *

**BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA**

* * *

**  
SCENE V.xix**

  
  
  

[The Hall]  
  

Finrod: [gently chiding tone]  
    
You should have come to visit us before the War broke out.  
  

Luthien: [bittersweet smile]  
    
That's what I said to Finduilas . . .  
  
[looks around]  
  
Where is that dog? Huan, you have to come here, you're the hero of this part -- come down where I can praise you properly.  
  
[reluctantly the Hound gets up, still skulking rather, and squeezes his way through the company, who edge aside to make room for him. He hunkers down behind Luthien on the other side, (since the space in front of the steps is now full of map) and puts his head across her lap. She gives him a quick kiss on the forehead and uses him quite casually as an armrest during the following exchanges. During all this movement Aredhel and Eol reappear, silently and somewhat tenuously, off to one side of the dais. They look about, hackles raised, daring anyone to notice or comment. There is something slightly different about their appearance, but hard to say what. Only now do they look at each other, with closed expressions:]  
  
[simultaneous]  
  

Eol:  
    
\--Don't say anything.  
  

Aredhel:  
    
\--Shut up.  
  
[overlapping]  
  

Eol:  
    
\--It means nothing--  
  

Aredhel:  
    
\--It doesn't mean anything--  
  
[they stop and glare briefly (but curiously) at each other, then look determinedly away]  
  

Eol:  
    
Some sort of Ainur trick, that's all.  
  
[she nods shortly; they sit down on the steps, at a distance from the rest but on the same side, though at arm's length from each other. After a moment the Noldor princess gives her husband a sidelong Look.]  
  

Aredhel: [amused]  
    
So . . . that's what you really want--  
  

Eol: [interrupting, through clenched teeth]  
    
\--Shut up.  
  
[by now it might have been noticed by viewers that neither of the couple is armed, and Eol though still dressed in all black, is no longer wearing his armour beneath his cloak. The Sea-elf leans over and whispers to her former colleague:]  
  

Teler Maid: [impressed]  
    
How knew you, that 'twould surpass the setting of false fire about her blade for diversion and mirth, to let her gain the Lady's notice?  
  

Captain:  
    
Just insight, lass, just plain old tercen. And deduction.  
  
[shaking his head]  
  
She'd not be warned by me. And Master Smith has trouble discerning his own best interests, no less. They were bound to fall foul of her soon enough.  
  

Luthien:  
    
So, anyway, we discussed several possible approaches to dealing with Enemy minions, and Huan definitely didn't think my idea of trying to sneak in and get work working as another slave in the kitchens or something would work, but then I wasn't sure if his idea of pretending to be sick or injured out in the woods beside the river bank away from the bridge and me going and pretending to betray him to Sauron out of revenge for him capturing me and giving me over to the Kinslayers would work. After all, the Terrible One might just keep me there and send a minion out to look for him -- though I was willing to try -- and then we came up with the idea of me luring him out, and Huan jumping on him from behind when he came to try to capture me.  
  
[through this narration Finrod and his relations, most particularly Nerdanel, are giving her extremely and increasingly strange Looks]  
  

Finrod:  
    
\--We?  
  
[he is giving her a baffled smile, which only succeeds in spreading the confusion]  
  

Luthien:  
    
? ? ?  
  

Finrod:  
    
You, and Huan . . . ?  
  

Luthien: [frowning]  
    
There wasn't anyone else there -- Celebrimbor had already gone away and didn't come back.  
  

Finrod:  
    
. . .  
  
[the Steward leans back, looking faintly amused]  
  

Steward:  
    
The answer, my lord, is "yes."  
  

Finrod: [still looking confused]  
    
But when did you learn to speak with kelvar, cousin? Or is that something you've always been able to do, like understanding trees,and never mentioned ere now?  
  

Luthien: [worried]  
    
I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking, Finrod.  
  

Finrod: [flatly]  
    
You and Huan were discussing things.  
  
[she nods]  
  

Third Guard: [earnest]  
    
The Hound does talk, Sire.  
  
[as the High Kings, living and dead, and the other Eldar, lawful or otherwise, stare at him]  
  
Beren said so. [biting his lip, Finrod looks at Huan, then at Luthien, still not knowing quite what to say. The Lord Warden shakes his head with a look of annoyance and scorn]  
  

Aglon: [intending to be heard]  
    
Dogs aren't quendi, you fools.  
  
[overlapping]  
  

Amarie:  
    
What, dost claim yon gangling rebel hound be more and greater nor any whelp other of Lord Orome's breeding?  
  
[she and the Warden glare at each other, momentarily, both furious at having shared an opinion in public, and ostentatiously look away from each other; Huan whines sadly.]  
  

Luthien: [shrugging]  
    
I don't know. I don't know if he's any different from the rest of Tavros' pack. All I know is, he's the best dog I've ever had or heard of.  
  
[distantly]  
And a better friend I've never had, either.  
  
[the Ambassador turns his head away, hiding a stricken expression behind his hand]  
  

Angrod: [not quite aside either]  
    
We always did say he understood every word we said . . .  
  

Finrod:  
    
Are you--  
  
[closes his eyes, starts over again. Carefully:]  
  
Has anyone besides yourself heard him?  
  

Luthien: [straightfaced]  
    
Well, -- Beren.  
  
[pause]  
  
And my father. And Mablung. And Beleg. And a whole lot of other people who were there when he died.  
  
[stroking the Hound's ears gently as she finishes]  
  

Finrod: [blankly]  
    
All right.  
  
[leaning back to look at the Captain]  
  
You weren't making a joke about it, then, earlier.  
  

Captain:  
    
No, Sir.  
  

Nerdanel: [resigned, though her brothers-in-law still look dubious, as do others]  
  
    
Nay, I do confess me much astonisht withal -- yet truly, ever did we say him wise, clever, and cunning in wit nigh as any Elf, about the House, in lost Day.  
  

Huan: [grinning]  
    
[happy tail thumps]  
  

Warrior:  
    
Ow! --Huan!!  
  

Aredhel: [very aside]  
    
What utter rot.  
  

Eol: [just as obviously not intended to be heard by Luthien]  
    
Obviously. I told you my royal family were mad.  
  

Apprentice: [generally smug]  
    
Oh, there'll be far stranger things than a talking dog before this is over--!  
  

Finrod: [struggling to not be incredulous]  
    
So . . .  
  
[he covers by reaching over to scratch Huan's nose, but is plainly rattled]  
  
. . . ah, you came up with a plan to draw Sauron out and trap him, between the two of you. I mean, between the two of you, you came up with a plan . . .  
  

Luthien:  
    
It works the other way, too.  
  

Finrod:  
    
It . . . sounds very . . . simple.  
  
[aside, aghast]  
  
\--And completely insane\--!!  
  

Luthien: [crossly]  
    
Well, I challenge you to come up with a better one on short notice--  
  
[breaking off]  
Oh -- no, I -- I didn't mean to say that, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry\--  
  
[she clutches her temples, grimacing, (fortunately at this point nothing she can do one way or the other can make her hair any worse) while Finrod shakes his head, trying to reassure her -- but not able to get through until Luthien experiences again for herself the dampening consequences of being distraught around a large friendly canid, as Huan takes advantage of proximity to snuffle in her ear and under her chin]  
  

Finrod: [rubbing her shoulder]  
    
Shh -- I understand.  
  
[Luthien pulls herself together, not entirely over her attack of remorse]  
  
It's still insane.  
  
[as she gives him a wary Look]  
  
\--What did Beren say about it, I wonder?  
  
[she glares at the ceiling arches]  
  
That's what I thought. So  
\-- I gather you rode Huan, then, like a horse?  
  
[the Lord of Dogs wags his tail again before remembering that there are other people about]  
  
Well, there isn't--  
  
[checks -- wryly, glancing over at the Apprentice]  
  
\--wasn't \-- a faster  
mount in my stables, so that part at least was sane, in my judgment. And he'd be better than any warsteed for dealing with any enemy patrols you might have run into.  
  

Huan:  
    
[melancholy whine]  
  

Luthien: [concerned]  
    
Are you going to be all right with me telling this?   
  
[her cousin nods, smiling just a little; she looks around at the rest of his relatives, and continues rather acerbically]  
  
Just to warn all of you, I'm not \-- and I'm probably going to start crying again at some point.  
  
[to Finrod, anxious again]  
\--Are you sure?  
  
[he nods again, not looking away from her]  
  

Finrod:  
    
It's over for us.  
  

Teler Maid: [very abruptly]  
    
I do not wish to hear this part again.  
  
[she gets up and goes to the falls, a little way from where the Youngest Ranger is lying down, and kneels down to watch the water too.]  
  

Elenwe: [considering Finrod's kinfolk with a piercing Look]  
    
Not for self alone doth the child speak, I deem.  
  

Finarfin:  
    
Thou seest overmuch, good my niece. Yet tales there be, that rehearsal doth not lighten, nor the passing time dull their most hurtsome edge upon the heart.  
  

Luthien: [very quietly]  
    
I'm sorry, my lord -- but what happens after doesn't make much sense, if I leave this out.  
  

Finarfin: [resolutely]  
    
Nay, say on: aught that  
hath been shall ne'er be made naught, by ceasing to speak thereof.  
  
[Finrod steals a concerned glance at his father -- it is only now beginning to sink in for him what the other Elf is going through. He does not however notice Amarie's frozen expression; Nerdanel holds out a hand to her, but the Vanyar lady either does not or chooses not to notice, keeping hers firmly folded on her knee as though posing for her portrait. The camera cuts over to the waterfall: by the spill pool, the Sea-elf has already gotten bored of silence and tosses something accurately at the unsuspecting Sindarin warrior. He startles, reaching up to snag it out of the air and sitting bolt upright in one quick motion, then looks bemusedly at the bracelet he has caught for himself.]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Rains jewelry here, eh?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Sorry--!  
  
[she does not sound particularly contrite, though -- he smiles at her, and she giggles]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [straight-faced]  
    
What are these?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Those are pearls, which come of oysters, which are akin to snails, though they do not look it. One finds them underwater.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Are you sure? They look like polished white glass to me.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Of course I am sure! I brought them up myself, and we had them for supper. The oysters, I mean. When I was alive of course. The ones I am dreaming of.  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
How do beads come from snails?  
  
[pause]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
I am not quite sure.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [still deadpan]  
    
Are you sure you're not making fun of me?  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Yes. No, I am not, I mean.  
  
[checks]  
  
Oh, but you are making sport of me! For you are known of Lord Cirdan, and the havens of the Land of Morning!  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Not I, I'm afraid. I lived my life inland, always -- I was never stationed on the Coast.  
  
[she makes an exasperated noise, tossing her head]  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
If not you, then all  
of you -- and indeed you must know something of them, for there  
are pearls on the very image of your cloak-pin there!  
  
[sniffing]  
  
Do you also know the way of it that pearls are fashioned, then?  
  
[he shakes his head]  
  
I must ask my Lady someday, that is all.  
  
[when he goes to give her back the bracelet she makes a "keep it" gesture, and looks at him thoughtfully with her head on one side.]  
  
Are you afraid of Lady Uinen?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [at a loss]  
    
I --'ve not had the honor -- never been introduced--  
  

Teler Maid: [probing]  
    
But would you, if you were to chance to meet her?  
  
[he starts knotting the pearls into the end of his braid]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [very busily not looking at her]  
    
Probably.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But you are are a warrior, you have fought demons and do not fear to wield weapons! And you are clever, you even know how to call things out of rocks!  
  
[she waves towards the Falls]  
  

Youngest Ranger: [dismissive]  
    
I learned that from the King. I don't understand what I'm doing enough to teach anyone else, and I think that's part of doing anything properly. And I grew up always knowing that there were creatures of the Enemy out there, and that people I knew had fought them, and might have to again. I didn't grow up knowing the gods as neighbors.  
  

Teler Maid: [even more dismissive in turn]  
    
Yes, but you have met them now, have you not? So why do you yet fear them?  
  
[pause]  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
I think when you and I look at things, we see them differently.  
  

Teler Maid:   
    
Of course! Or we should not be different people.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [patient]  
    
I mean, more differently than most differences. --When I look at the gods, it's like standing by the smeltry and watching them cast ingots for the forging. That level of raw energy, even if it's completely controlled, scares me more than I can tell. I trust the smiths, but I don't like being around so much power. I don't think it's the same for you.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
You do not like the gods.  
  
[worried and scolding]  
  
Are the words of those proud Noldor true, then, though they should not mock anyone for Turning, that you do reject the Powers of our land?  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
That wasn't what I said.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
But it was in your thought.  
  

Youngest Ranger: [correcting patiently]  
    
I don't like being around them. It frightens me.  
  
[pause]  
  
Though a lot of that was my own fears, about being sent back. Now that I know they were right, that no one has to leave before he's ready, the idea of the Lord and Lady doesn't make me sick with anxiousness.  
  

Teler Maid: [with a sulky but self-directed humor]  
    
That, you might indeed have known, did you but consider me \-- even were you not willing to trust your friends' wisdom!  
  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
But I didn't know it. Not until I was willing to ask Them and risk the answer.  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Are you afraid of Nienna, too?  
  

Youngest Ranger: [surprised tone]  
    
No!  
  

Teler Maid:  
    
Why? Or not, as it rather were.  
  
[pause]  

Youngest Ranger:  
    
Because--  
  
[checks]  
  
\--because.  
  
[she gives him a Look, and he sighs and goes on]  
  
\--Because when She looks at you, you know that nothing you've done, nothing that was done to you, nothing you could ever do, and nothing you didn't do, could ever make Her look at you in any other way. --Or look away from you. How could I be frightened by Love that doesn't demand anything of me in return, doesn't judge me, has no conditions, and won't ever stop?  
  
[pause]  
  
I'm not sure why House Feanor is so afraid of her, myself.  
  
[the other shade looks away, subdued, and slumps  
down to lean on the rocks and watch the flames on the water for a while]  
  

Teler Maid: [very quietly]  
    
Because it makes one to wish to become worthy of that love.  


  



	72. Scene V.xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enteract and Conclusion to The Leithian Script. WIP.

**A Boy, A Girl & A Dog**  
The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project  


* * *

BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

* * *

  
SCENE V.xx

  
  
  
    
[Elsewhere: the Corollaire]  
  

Beren:  
    
You're not saying as much, but for some reason it's making more sense when you explain these things to me.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Of course. My family means well, but sometimes they can be a bit overwhelming. And you're mine, so naturally you understand me more clearly.  
  

Beren: [gesturing widely at the distant eastern horizon]  
    
The thing I still don't understand is how anything good can come out of what Morgoth does. It would be nice to think that in spite of himself he ends up doing some good, even if it doesn't make up for the rest, but I don't see how that's possible, 'cause all he does is destroy stuff and hurt people.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
The best way I can explain is to tell you a story. --And yes, it's real.  
  
[he grins, abashed]  
  
Once there were creatures in Middle-earth like pigs, but different. And the King's greedy brother stole them from the Lady who owned them, while they were foraging on the plains for food, because he said they were on his property. And he turned them into monsters, and made them bigger, and gave them round flat feet, and made their tushes as long as spears, and sent them back to trample on her gardens and dig up the roots of them and knock over the trees she had planted there.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
How did he do that?  
  

Yavanna: [sadly]  
    
I'm afraid I can't tell you.  
  

Beren: [nodding]  
    
Mysteries of the gods. I understand.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
No, you don't. That's the trouble. I would if I knew how, but it's so different from anything in your life, from your perspective, that I don't think it will make any sense.  
  

Beren:  
    
Oh.  
  
[pause]  
  
Can you try?  
  

Yavanna: [slight frown]  
    
Yes, but I don't know that I'll be able to succeed. --Do the words "transposable element-induced  
mutations" convey anything to you?  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
Nope.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
That's what I was afraid of.  
  
[pause -- slowly]  
  
You know about breeding ungulates, right? How you can change the herd by coupling the hardiest, or select for more milk, or heavier coats, or smaller horns, or calmer temper?  
  

Beren:  
    
Like cows and sheep and goats, right? Are they like -- ungulants? Because I don't think we have them back home. Since obviously you're not talking about spiders.  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Yes, you do -- that's what they are, all of them. And others as well. It means the ones with hooves, not paws.  
  

Beren: [embarrassed]  
    
Oh.  
  

Yavanna: [tossing her head, dismissive]  
    
Silly word, really. I know what they are, and they know what they are, but it means so much to the Eldar to be able to organize them with names. Anyhow, Melkor did something like that to them, only because he's a god he can do it far more effectively and in ways that would never occur to most people to think of -- thankfully! -- but it takes a very long time, even for us, to change things, and while he was so pleased with himself for making creatures that could destroy my trees, he completely missed something else that was happening at the same time.  
  
[she smiles, rather scarily -- her tone is triumphant]  
  
They became wise. They live in tribes, of a sort, now, and they have lore of a fashion, and they teach their young to mind the old ways, and the oldest females are always their leaders. And they do knock down and eat trees, but they also make it possible for many other creatures to live, on them and around them and because of them. So -- those ones are still mine, even though he tried to take them away from me.  
  

Beren:  
    
You did that? You -- can do that?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Of course. But not the same way. Not as you're thinking of it, like that game your friends are so mad for, the one with little bits of stone -- as though Melkor moved one, and then I moved another to counter him. And it isn't just me, either. It's all of us.Nia and dear Este and Tav', and my kinswomen, Vana and Nessa and little Melian, and my husband, and Irmo and your friends Tulkas and the one you've never met, but know as well as me, Ulmo, and his people, and Vaire, Namo and Manwe and Varda, and all of us, everywhere, the ones you know of and the ones no Elf or Man has ever guessed at.  
  
[pause]  
  
\--Huan, too.  
  

Beren:  
    
You mean the Song.  
  

Yavanna: [nodding]  
    
It pours out across the emptiness, and he tries to block it, and he can't -- all he can do is hold it for a little, or change it from what it was trying to be, but it's like trying to stop a river -- only instead of a river, it's the whole ocean.  
  
[he is frowning]  
  
Have I made things hopelessly confusing?  
  

Beren: [quick headshake]  
    
No -- not really. What -- When you said "trees," you weren't thinking about orchards or hawthornes or junipers, were you? Small trees?  
  
[she shakes her head in turn]  
  
That's…what I was afraid of. --What kind of trees?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
I don't know what names have been given to them -- but they're probably most like oaks, of all the ones you're familiar with, though the roots are different. But they look somewhat like a particularly thick-boled and gnarled oak tree.   
  

Beren: [hopefully]  
    
But -- not that tall, right?  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Oh yes. Easily.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [apprehensive]  
    
How?  
  

Yavanna:  
  
    
With their foreheads.  
[longer pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
How big are they?  
  
[the Earthqueen shrugs]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Very.  
  
[wide-eyed, he doesn't answer, except with a quick shiver, and an appalled smile -- she looks at him curiously]  
  
What are you thinking?  
  
[for some reason this embarrasses him]  
  

Beren: [flustered]  
    
Oh. I -- I was -- and this is just, um, hypothetical, even if it wasn't anyway already, because I don't want to, you understand -- but -- I was wondering how you'd go about taking one. Sorry.  
  

Yavanna: [not offended in the least]  
    
But of course. You're his also. You could hardly help but wonder about it.  
  

Beren: [frowning still more]  
    
\--Mostly about what you'd do with it after. A whole village could hardly eat an animal big enough to plough over an oak tree like it was a shrub! And you couldn't make it into hams, either, not easily. I'm just croggled thinking about the technical problems of skinning something as big as a cottage. And what would you do with the bones? Make houses out of 'em?  
  
[she looks pensive for a moment]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
Ye--es, I believe they do.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren:  
    
You mean -- somebody has?  
  

Yavanna: [sad]  
    
Your people are very stubborn. And ingenious.  
  

Beren:  
    
How?  
  

Yavanna: [raising her hands]  
    
Hunting is not my Art. I gather it's quite dangerous, however it's done, and often the price is the hunter's life, so it isn't frequent -- a dire emergency, when the certaintyof famine makes the likelihood of sacrificing a leader worthwhile. --Which is a fair bargain.  
  
[pause]  
  

Beren: [wide-eyed]  
    
Okay, what I really want to know is, where do they live, and is it any way near Beleriand, or could they get there? Because this is really scary, even if it doesn't affect me directly.  
  
[she shakes her head, amused]  
  

Yavanna:  
    
They only thrive where it's hot all year round -- that's where they were made for, since things grow there without a break. It's very far from where you lived -- beyond several Barriers, and a long ways south besides. And it's very unlikely that they would ever cross a Barrier -- they're not designed for climbing, but crushing, and they haven't much interest in traveling out of their own lands. --Another thing he failed to notice until it was too late.  
  
[the Earthqueen sounds very smug -- Beren gives a relieved sigh.]  
  

Beren:  
    
That's good to hear. I guess if it were different they could've used them to knock down the Nightshade instead of trying to burn me out.  
  
[wistful]  
  
You know, I'd still kind of like to see one. From a safe distance.  
  
[frowning]  
  
I wonder if you could domesticate them…and what you'd do with them if you did, and how you'd feed them.  
  
[looking at her wryly]  
  
Now I'm trying to think how big of a barn you'd need to put them in.  



End file.
